


Join The Fan Club

by cannibalisticshadows



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Rumbelle - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fandom Allusions & Cliches & References, Fluff, Implied Drug and Alcohol Use, Mild Language, Missing Persons, Music, Older Man/Younger Woman, Original Music Lyrics Inspired By OUAT, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompts are now in use, Rock and Roll, Romantic Comedy, Secret Identity, Song Lyrics, Tattooed Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-09 02:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: Belle has an idée fixe.Unbeknownst to her, he's right under her nose.





	1. The Announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story setting takes place in late 2000s

_“Good Monday Moring, America!”_

_“Mhmm, and we’ve got some very exiting news this morning, Berloiz!”_

_“Yes, Marie, we do! Pull out your vinyls, folks, because we’re about to get a blast from the past. Twenty-five years ago, one-hit wonder band “Rum and The Queens of Darkness” broke up for unknown reasons after their bandleader, an anonymous man only known as “Rum”, mysterious vanished in 1982. This group’s story has remained untold—many speculating that we’ll never know why they abruptly ended right at the height of their career. Well, that is until now! For the very first time, fans will finally get to know what happened to this short-lived but phenomenal band…”_

Belle’s coffee mug slipped from her hand, crashing to the floor. A look of pure nonplus washes her face snow-white. Her heart skips a whole beat. 

_No. No. This_ has _to be a joke_.

_“Mallory Coatl, stage named “Maleficent”, has very recently rekindled her relationship with estranged friends Ella Duval Feinberg and Vanessa Adetokunbo, respectively “Cruella” and “Ursula”, and the three ex-rockers have finally decided to share their story with the world. The Queens of Darkness themselves will be having a live interview right here on set, 9:00 p.m. central, Thursday night—”_

Belle’s jaw dropped. Someone said her name, but she was too out of it to care or notice. Every last shred of her rapt attention was fixated on the television. 

_“Well, I’m certainly on the edge of my seat with anticipation! Hope to see you all there, watching from home. Now here’s Toulouse with the sports.”_

Belle cried out in alarm. She was dreaming. It had to be a dream. This—

“Belle!?”

The librarian yelped in surprise and spun around, grasping her friend by the shoulders. “Oh my gosh! Can you believe it—“

“Believe what?”

“Rum—“

“Ooh, that rock band you're always talking about? Yeah, I remember the songs you've shown me... I guess it’ll be pretty cool to see them all together again… Most of them, anyway. D’you think they’ll say what happen to their bandleader? Wonder if he’s gonna be there.”

“That… that will be really, really exiting…”

Rum and The Queens of Darkness was a European indie/alternative rock band who took the world by storm in the early 1980’s. Like many other bands, they started out playing in small pubs that paid homage to young musicians like them. In 1981, they played their one-hit wonder song “I Always Felt Sorry for Rumpelstiltskin” with two music agents coincidently present: evidently, they become an instant sensation. They even gained popularity and attention from other nations! Their musical career skyrocketed within the first few months of the world’s notice of them. Some jokingly called them the punkers that became the next Beatles. Within the following year, Rum and The Queens of Darkness had their first tour, an insanely growing fandom, band merchandise, and they even met the Queen of England herself! All in all, they only ever released two records—one official album: _Rue for Fairytale Villains_ , and one other “album” consisting of singles. It was in the summer of 1982 that Rum and The Queens of Darkness became… well, just the Queens of Darkness. Rum was suddenly… not present anymore. The “sub-bandleader” was Maleficent, fondly called “Mal” by fellow band members and fans, told reporters that Rum had quit. For _good_.

Shortly after Rum broke it off, The Queens of Darkness tried going on as a threesome band instead of a foursome like before. Indeed, they weren’t the same without Rum… As a result, fans rapidly lost interest in them, demanding to know what happened to Rum, and for them know his real identity. 

But the Queens never reveled Rum’s true identity, respectfully remaining silent about the whole affair. Maleficent broke off next, with Cruella and Ursula dispersing quickly after.

The band’s short-lived name quickly became history soon after.

Yet, despite that, it wasn’t as if they were still missing like Rum—at least, not for long. Ursula revealed herself to be Vanessa Adetokunbo. Despite leaving the band, she never left the singing industry and went on to become a famous opera singer. Presently, Ursula (she still goes by her stage name) preforms in the coast of Denmark. As for Maleficent and Cruella, they didn’t go public under years later. 

In early 2000, Cruella came out as Ella Duval Feinberg—she’s a widow, and she kept her maiden name and used it as her middle name, still clinging to her spouse’s name. She’s a fashion and interior designer living in London. 

As for Maleficent, she broke ended her secrecy and came out two years after Cruella as one Mallory Coatl, a single mother living in Wissembourg. 

Even after the Queens let their real identities out, Rum never came forward. The Queens never explained why he left.

As for Belle, well… she was just another fangirl. She accidently stumbled upon the _Rue for Fairytale Villains_ album in the dark corners of her mother’s attic when Belle was small. After playing it, Belle instantly fell in love and avidly became a die-hard fan of the band nearly consigned to oblivion. It was even more special once her parents came home that day to find her rocking out with the turntable cranked up as high as it would go. Instead of being mad at her for snooping, they beamed and told her that it was because of Rum and the Queens that they were together.

Belle could still hear her mother say, _“We were on our one-millionth date or so… Your father simply couldn’t take the hint that I was madly in love with him. No matter how many hints I dropped that I wanted him to take what we had then further, he hardly moved past courting me. I was tired of it. Sometime in 1981, your father took me on a date to see Rum and the Queens. And lucky us, we won a backstage pass to meet the band in person. Rum, the ringmaster so to say, took one look at us and, as if he could read minds, knew what our problem was. Do you want to know what he did, once we saw him face to face? He throws his arm around me, looks at your father in the eye, and says—and this is a rough translation from his Scottish English—_ “Your girlfriend is hot. Can I borrow her for the night?” _Rum didn’t give your father time to act on that, for he drops down in a chair and pulls me into his lap, and the Queens—Maleficent, Cruella, and Ursula—came over and flaunted about him like birds to seed. They knew it, too. They were trying to get us jealous of each other. And oh, it worked like a charm, and when we left, Rum went to your father and pulled him to the side. Your father won’t tell me what that punker told him, but he proposed to me three days later. We had been dating six years before we met Rum and The Queens of Darkness. If not for them, we would probably still be dating to this day._ ”

The Internet fed Belle the rest of the information. Rum and The Queens of Darkness had a fan site that was more of a tribute. It was used by those who were alive during their small reign, or those like Belle, who simply believed to have been born in the wrong era and gushed over the insanely attractive and mysterious Rum, who was no doubt a geezer by now. The site had things like pictures, videos of their concerts, news articles, revelations and updates on what the Queens were up to, fan art, stories from people who claim to have met the members, and theories as to what happened to Rum. Obviously, many of those stories were farce and most likely pure fanfiction than anything. Some people even tried claiming to be Rum, when, clearly, they weren’t (do you think a 6’foot-something Canadian who’s had one too many Twinkies pass as a 5’foot-something lean Scotsman?). Hell, the site had so many of those fanfiction it had to create a page solely for them. Belle would be lying if she said she’s never visited that part of the site. Or read things on it. Or submitted things.

If Belle had a nickel for every Rum x Reader she’s read, she wouldn’t have to worry about finishing paying her tuition. 

“Huh. Never heard of them, before,” Leroy commented at the bar in Granny’s, where Belle was catching up with long-time friend Ruby Lucas with her morning coffee. Granny’s TV was an old box mounted in the top corner of the room. The news was all it really played, but occasionally played football or hockey on game nights.

Granny herself, Ruby’s grandmother, was fiddling with the cash register when the Queens of Darkness’s interview was announced. She had a thoughtful look on her aging face, and her sharp bird eyes flitted to Belle. “You a fan?”

“They seldom leave my turntable.”

“Yeah… I know them. I think.” Doctor Viktor Whale said from a small table. “They wrote ‘The Cradle-Snatcher’, right?”

“Yep,” Granny answered before Belle could, whipping down the counter. “Saw one of their concerts. Once.”

If Belle had a second cup of coffee, she would have dropped it, too. “Wait, really?!” Ever since Belle came to Storybrooke two years ago for her job at the library, she hadn’t found a single person who knew about the band— _and_ liked it. Belle’s thoughts glumly shifted to the one person who did know about the band, but had not one nice thing to say about them.

Granny waved her off but had a small knowing smile. “Down, girly. It was hardly anything special. When I saw them, they were hardly anything popular. None of that costume, makeup crap, anyway. Just some crazy-ass kids having fun on stage in a rundown pub.”

Belle was giddy. She had no idea Granny knew about Rum and the Queens. The only reasons her friends knew was because she practically tied them down and threatened them to listen. 

As they all talked, Belle noticed from the corner of her eye that one person wasn’t participating in the heated conversation. Unsurprisingly, it was the one person who Belle was glumly thinking of earlier.

It was Mr. Gold, the pawnbroker and landlord of Storybrooke. He was at the bar, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of black coffee when all this began. Now, he was glowering at the small crowd of townspeople like he wanted to set them all on fire. Belle frowned. Mr. Gold, from her impression, was annoyed at the very idea of Rum and the Queens of Darkness. It wasn’t just rock and roll—no, he seemed to not care about it, though Belle could swear she’s seen him tap a foot or a forefinger to the beat of a song. It was just this one band he seemed to despise. He had made that very clear the day she came to town, two years ago. 

_**~Two Years Ago~** _

“Bluestocking” by Rum and The Queens of Darkness was blaring through her car’s speakers. Belle was happily bobbing along to the beat of the song, singing like no one was listening (no one better be). 

_“Look around,_  
_Look around us my darling,_  
_At the shards of the_  
_Parts of our hearts,_  
_We’re running in circles,_  
_I’m starting to think this is,_  
_Just another dream,_  
_But our teas and our quips,_  
_Stain the pages of your paperbacks,_  
_It reminds me of forget-me-nots, roses, and daisies,_  
_Darling,_  
_It’s what we have,_  
_A sweet, fuzzy feeling,_  
_A lovely feeling,_  
_It’s your smiles at the frosted windows,_  
_It’s your stories at the hearth,_  
_Yarn of love to spin, of both wool and words,_  
_I've gone dumb from how numb_  
_This ole sorry heart of mine is,_  
_But you, oh you,_  
_It’s like you really see me,_  
_I've gone dizzy,_  
_But you're far from that,_  
_Oh, sweetheart, love me like you mean it,_  
_Don’t scheme it,_  
_You’re smarter than that,_  
_My darling bluestocking_.”  


Belle was so lost in the words of the song that she hardly noticed the man walking across the street. On a crosswalk. With the lights red. 

The brakes of her old car screeched like a dying animal, smoke expelling from the wheels. Belle’s insides churned with horror, knowing full and well she was in the wrong, here. If she was lucky, the man would just get a concussion and hopefully forget that a irresponsible driver hit him at all. 

But, upon falling out of the car and preparing to see blood everywhere with a dead body, the most irked expression met her face. Relief filled her system. She hadn’t hit him. Thank G—

“Did a flock of dense New York housewives teach you how to drive, or are you just particularly fond of hitting crippled old men in the street with this piece of work?”

Belle stood still for a few seconds, processing what the man just told her. The first thing that freezes Belle to the point of muteness was the man’s accent.

_Good Lord above bless my sorry soul, he’s Scottish—Gah, damn, I can’t even—that’s too sexy for me. I think I just wet my panties. Danger, danger; abort, abort, abandon scene—_

Blinking innocently before gathering her wits, she takes a breath and responds. “I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t paying attention. I—“

“Of course you’re sorry. You don’t want me to sue you over the horrific damage you’ve caused me. Really, do you see the way I’m limping, dearie?” the man lifted a cane Belle just now notices, and she cringes. She could tell the man was angry at her, but really—she hadn’t touched him, now that she sees. He looked fine. More than fine, actually.

The Scotsman wasn’t terribly taller than her, but than again, most people were taller than Belle. He had soft brown hair peppered with silver streaks that fell close to his shoulders, dark sable eyes, an aquiline nose, and a sharp chiseled face. All in all, he really wasn’t unattractive—or that old, even. Belle guessed him to be in his mid or late forties, which wasn’t too terrible. A little younger than her father, if she was one to guess. Secondly, Belle began to note the devilishly cut black suit he wore topped with a black dress shirt, black waistcoat, and black tie. His cane was made of polished black wood with an intricate golden handle. Belle’s knees went weak for a moment. Yep, not a geezer. _A near silver fox if I ever did see one._

But then Belle took in what he said, and frowned. “I really am sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. I had no intention of hurting you—nor was I taught to drive by New Yorkers. My father taught me. I do beg your pardon, sir.”

Mr. Silver Fox sneered for a moment as he straightened his back and shoulders. “Pardon begged. Now, if you have no more intention of running me over, I bid you good day, Miss…” 

“French. Isabelle French, but I go by B—.”

“ _French_ ,” he said snippily, turning around as if he had no need for a cane. He looked prepared to prowl off. However, Mr. Silver Fox paused and turned his head as if to say something else, but stood still, visibly listening to something. 

“…Sir?”

“What… are you listening to?”

Belle blinked owlishly before understanding. Her car door was open, and her radio was still playing—loudly. “Bluestocking” had come to an end, and the next song, “The Cradle-Snatcher”, was just starting. 

Belle beamed at him, albeit a bit sheepishly. “Rum and The Queens of Darkness. They’re my favorite.”

Mr. Silver Fox sneered at her one last time before marching off.

Well, then.

Belle was left feeling confused and a bit hurt. So, not everyone liked rock music, but you didn’t have to _sneer_ at it!

“Oh, my God. I know the town beast terrorizes every newbie that comes into town, I just didn’t think you’d get the heat so soon.”

Surprised by the new voice, Belle spun around and saw a girl standing on the sidewalk in front of a cute little building called Granny’s. She was scandalously dressed, with red dye streaking her hair and clothes. She smiles, though, once Belle meets her gaze. “Hiya. I’m Ruby.”

“Belle,” the auburn-brunette smiled, walking over to shake the other girl's hand. “So, you know that man?”

Ruby ducked her head like a parent would stare at a child who just asked a question with painfully obvious answer. “That’s Mr. Gold. The one and only Terror of Storybrooke.”

“Ooh… Well, he certainly wasn’t too friendly. Even though I kinda almost hit him with my car.”

“Ha!” the other girl kicked her head back with a laugh. “Would’ve done us all a favor there, sweetie. Now, why don’t you park said car and come in for a nice glass of sweet tea?”

_**~Present~** _

Back to the present, Belle watches as Mr. Gold gets up from his seat, carelessly toss a couple of bills onto the counter as if they were nothing, and silently leave Granny’s, the soft taping of his cane the only sound he makes.

A bit crestfallen due to his visible disapproval of the Queen’s interview tomorrow, Belle gets the chance to remember what she has to be doing. Like getting to work. Panicky all of a sudden, the librarian hugs Ruby goodbye and dashes out the door. Mr. Gold wasn’t too far ahead, but Belle had to go a little faster than a speed walk in order not to loose him.

“Mr. Gold,” Belle called, slowing her pace to walk beside him. For a man with a cane, he could seriously move fast. The Scotsman did not slow down as much as Belle would prefer, but gave a fleeting glance her way. It left as quick as it came.

“Miss French. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can I ask you a question?” Belle asked, struggling to keep up with his “casual” pace. But even now, he doesn’t stop for her. Why was it that Mr. Gold seemed to hate her? He wasn’t her landlord, no; the library was government owned. Belle could count on one hand the number of times they’ve talked since she moved here from Australia, but every one of those times ended up with Mr. Gold growling at her like a ticked off lion. A sexy, Scottish lion. Still, Belle had never given him a good reason to get to annoyed with her, besides that one time she nearly ran him over. 

Mr. Gold says snippily, “Make it quick, dearie. Transactions don’t happen by themselves.”

“Y-yes, of course—Do you hate Rum and the Queens of Darkness?”

That got Mr. Gold to pause. For just a moment, before he continued on at an even faster pace. “Now, what gave you that idea?”

“You didn’t look too happy when I told you about it the first time, or that time I was talking about them with Mulan at the library and you happened to walk in, or that other time I was playing some RQD songs at Mary Margret’s place when you stopped by to pick up the rent—“

“You’re wasting time.”

“Sor—No, no I’m not sorry. I want to know why. I mean, I see you not minding other rock and roll songs that happen to be playing when you’re around, and I think I’ve seen you tap to the beat of music once or twice. It’s just, you always tense up when it’s about Rum—“

“Miss French,” Mr. Gold barked, stopping to face her. Belle, so caught up in her spiel, nearly crashed into his suddenly immobile figure. “What I do or don’t like is none of your business. Secondly, I would appreciate it if you keep your nosy little self away from it if you have nothing to discuss with me that’s nae related to business. My shop is open from Monday through Thursday, eight a.m. to seven p.m. If you have nothing professional to speak of, Miss French, I would greatly appreciate it if you remove yourself from my personal space. Good day.”

Belle suddenly noticed how close she was. Flushing as she felt the heat radiate off the lean Scotsman, the young woman stepped back politely. Once freed from her presence, Mr. Gold turned away and speed walked down the street. And just like that, Mr. Gold was gone.

And it was in that moment Belle noticed how nice is butt was.

 _Humph_! 

If the man weren’t such an ass, she would have jumped him ages ago. 

Oh well. Why _should_ Belle care what he does or doesn’t like? Mr. Gold wasn’t important right now, anyway—getting ready to hear long-awaited answers to what happened to Rum was!


	2. Shelter From The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queens of Darkness interview is nearing quickly, and Belle will soon have answers as to what happened to Rum. However, our young librarian finds herself busy with another Scotsman.

(Tuesday Evening)

Belle was in a tizzy.

In two days, the Queens of Darkness interview would take place on live international television. Finally, after nearly twenty six years, the world get their answers. 

The answers to what happened to Rum.

Since that faithful Monday morning at Granny’s, Belle has been driving herself mad over anticipation and excitement, feeling thrilled and terrified all at once. What if the answers she’s been waiting for isn’t what she expected? What if it is everything she’s expected? What will she do then, when all mystery is finally put to rest?

The russet haired woman chewed her lip as she passed her library, shooing glances at her iPhone that sat silently on the checkout counter.

Today Belle was expecting a call from her parents. She last spoke with Papa last week, before the interview’s announcement was made. He told her he’d call when he could; he would call when Mum was feeling better.

Just then, like magic, the phone rang. Belle bolted like lightning to the phone, snatching it up as if her life depended on it.

“Hello?” she managed to say, blindly answering.

“ _Petal!_ ”

It was her papa. Smiling in relief, Belle began walking around the shelves. The library had already closed for the day, so it was just Belle.

“Hey, Papa! How’s Mum?”

A pause, and the crinkling of a paper. “ _Baby!_ ” her mother’s worn voice rang through the phone, and Belle couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. 

Belle and her parents moved from Australia when she was barely done with middle school. They had come for business, or something, but not long after arriving, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. To put a long story short, her parents live in New York for treatment while Belle moved here to work.

“Mum! How are you feeling—? Oh, have you seen the news lately—!?”

Mum’s voice laughed ruefully, weary with exhaustion. “ _Yes, yes, I have. Exiting, isn’t it?_ ”

“I can’t stop freaking out! Ooh, exited is an understatement. But, really, how are you? Can I come visit?”

 _“Baby, you can always visit us. You don’t need to ask. And I’m hanging in there…_ ”

Belle and her parents spoke for a good while. She talked about her job and her friends, random things that popped into her head. Books were put away and things tidied up. At some point or another, while Belle was running her fingers across the counter, she noticed a figure walk by the front doors.

It was Mr. Gold. Dressed impeccably, the man spared her a small glance as he passed. Belle smiled softly when his dark sable eyes met hers, and it took a small pinch on her hip to keep her from pouting when he just glowered disapprovingly.

“ _What’s wrong?_ ”

“Huh?”

“ _Petal, you stopped midsentence…Very unlike you. Everything alright?_ ”

“Oh, I did? Yeah, yeah, everything’s alright, its just some guy.”

A grumble from her father was heard, but her mother cooed softly. “ _A guy? Tell us! Is he your boyfriend? What’s his name?_ ”

Blushing, Belle adamantly denied it as she circled her desk. “There’s nothing to tell, Mum. And he’s not a boy. He’s nearly dad’s age. He’s just… some guy. I don’t know him very well.”

“ _Some guy,_ ” Papa groused, “ _doesn’t make my baby girl stop dead in her tracks. Who is this bastard?_ ”

“ _Maurice!_ ” Mum tutted, making a swatting sound at him. Belle heard a plastic chair scrape tial and a hospital monitor beep. “ _Don’t you want to be a grandfather?_ ”

“ _Not because of a man who’s ‘nearly my age’! Belle, you’re too young—_ “

“ _Twenty five is high time she find her special someone. We won’t be around forever_.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“ _Yeah, well, at least make sure this guy’s not some ax murderer._ ”

“Haha,” Belle deadpanned. “He’s not my ‘special someone’, guys. Like I said, I don’t know him.”

“ _Oh honey,_ ” Mum sang, “ _a mother_ knows. _Tell us about this_ man _of yours_.”

The young librarian chewed her lip. How did one describe Mr. Gold? “He’s… Scottish.”

Her mother squealed. It was no secret that either woman had a thing for accents.

“I don’t know his first name, but everyone calls him Mr. Gold. He’s the landlord here—not my landlord. But he works as a pawnbroker… and a defense attorney. Um, he walks with a cane, but to be honest, he moves like he’s an Olympics runner. Wears suits, all day every day. Dark brown eyes. Longish hair… Mid-forties? Oh, yeah, and he hates me.”

Mum made a hum of recognition. Papa bristled, “Forty? Hates you? Why, I ne—“

“ _Why do you say that, beautiful girl?_ ” 

Belle fumed and found herself ranting about it all. “Mr. Gold never visits the library, but I could count on one hand a number of times he’s barged in here to tell me off for playing my music too loud; he judges my music choices; he never smiles; he always puts me off when I say anything remotely friendly toward him. He’s just so… Ugh, I don’t know. I am interested in him, but no matter how many times I try getting somewhat close the man practically growls at me. Oh, and he downright despises Rum and The Queens!”

Her mother grunted. Her father mumbles, “ _Sounds like a real charmer, petal. When’s the wedding?_ ”

“Papa,” she deadpanned. 

Mum says, _“Sweet cheeks. If you honestly feel attracted to this man, enough so that he gets my little chatterbox to speechlessness, you have to do the brave thing. That’s what Rum taught us, remember?_ ”

How could Belle forget?

“So, you want me to pursue him? He—“

“ _If Mr. Gold hasn’t explicitly said he dislikes you, or is not interested in you, than you should try. Maybe he’s just as nervous around you as you are to him. Maybe acting like an ass hat is his way of handling stress. You don’t know until you approach him. Do the brave thing, baby, and bravery will follow._ ”

Belle nodded solemnly, as if her mother could see her now. “Okay.”

They talked a little more, mostly with her papa demanding a picture of this “cradle snatcher” so he knows who to lyntch whenever he visits. Belle and Mum tried keeping the RATQOD references to a minimal. 

Before they signed off, Belle’s mother caught her attention. _“Hey, Baby… I just remembered something.”_

“Yes?” Belle asked, pacing the library still. 

_“The night we met Rum, he shouted something to us before we left.”_

“Oh?” 

_“He said we should come back in a few years with a hot daughter for him.”_

Belle’s squeal of excitement and elation couldn’t be kept calm even after saying goodbye to her parents. The fact that Rum, her idol since the day she discovered him, indirectly flirted with her over a course of nearly thirty years was exhilarating. Yes, Belle was definitely obsessed. 

Unable to keep herself from it, Belle logged on to her account on the RATQOD fan page’s fanfiction site. 

To her delight, _wickedwitch13_ had updated her Rum x Reader story.

 

~.~.~.~.~

_“He comes into the room with a prance_  
_His stance is sure, so sharp and quick,_  
_He’s no nance,_  
_He’s not France,_  
_He’s the trance you cannot understand, lass,_  
_You’re too artless for tha’,_  
_But look, he’s caught your glance,_  
_The dance is so sure,_  
_Oh yeah,_  
_It’s so sure,_  
_He invites you to his manse,_  
_He tells you to take the chance,_  
_Kisses the virgin apple hues of your cheeks,_  
_Says he’ll know how to care for his lass,_  
_And it’s then you realize,_  
_With inexplicable uncertainty,_  
_In the gentle hold of his loving arms,_  
_That he’s no prince charming,_  
_No knight in shining armor,_  
_Not one of the boys,_  
_He’s the cradle snatcher,_  
_And he’s snatched you,_  
_Now baby please don’t cry.”_

“The Cradle-Snatcher”, RATQOD

~.~.~.~.~

(Wednesday Afternoon)

“Hello, Mr. Gold?

Belle opened the pawnshop’s door with a gentle push, tentatively looking around. The bell above the door rung cheerfully; it was a cute little normalcy, for any store, but for Mr. Gold’s, the town beast, it was a painful contrast.

At first, Belle didn’t see anyone, but heard the soft strum of a string instrument. The second thing she notices in the soft yellow light of the pawnshop was the large array of knickknacks and ornaments decorating the store. Paintings and a large spinning wheel decorated the walls. Belle approaches one of the glass cases at the counter where priceless jewelry was kept safe inside. Admiring raptly, the russet haired woman wondered why on earth she had never ventured into Mr. Gold’s shop before now. 

The music stopped almost immediately once Belle called out for Mr. Gold. She heard the shuffling of a man in the backroom—which was hidden behind a curtain—followed by a few colorful curses in a foreign language. The tapping of a cane sounded, and the man himself pushed passed the curtain with a raised eyebrow and visibly irked expression. When his dark sable eyes fell on Belle, however, the small-town tycoon’s face fell. 

“Miss French. What a surprise.”

“Hi, Mr. Gold! I, um, I was wondering—“

Oh fudge. What _was_ Belle wondering? Was she wondering if Mr. Gold truly hated her or not? Wondering if he wanted to go to Granny’s with her? Wondering if he wanted to show her that mysterious back room of his and snog like no tomorrow? Why was it she came, again?

“Yes?”

Belle, paralyzed with anxiety, mentally slapped herself a few times to pull her britches up. She refused to show him her nervousness. _Do the brave thing._

“Do you have music?”

Mr. Gold blinked owlishly. “Music?”

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

“Like, records or instruments… Was that you playing back there?”

To her surprise, the man bristled at that and a soft pink blush bloomed at his cheek bones. But, it was fleeting, and Belle wondered if she even saw it at all, with the low light and all. “I was not playing,” Mr. Gold said defensively, hesitating ever so slightly. Belle guiltily relished in that small sign of humanness. “I was tuning it. Nothing more.”

“Oh! Well, what are you tuning? I’ve been looking for an instrument to play, but…”

“There is no music store in Storybrooke…”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Gold tapped one long finger on the handle of his cane thoughtfully. His eyes only left hers to stare absently at her black flats. He sighed, and then his gaze returned to hers. “Fine.” He beckoned her to follow as he disappeared behind the curtain again. Belle beamed, feeling as if she’d won a million dollars.

She trailed behind him with eager eyes. The backroom was filled with all sorts of fascinating items like in the front, but instead of a glass case counter, there was a work desk, a cot, shelves, and a set of draws that looked as if they once belonged to a messy painter. Pungent odors of chemicals and spice gave her sinuses a good knock out, and she winced at the dizzying effect. 

“Forgive me for the smell. I do quite a bit of restoration. I assure the smell is normal.”

Belle nodded as she worked to get used to the smell. Her eyes finally land on the cot, and what was lying on it.

It was a harp guitar. 

Belle gasps softly, never having actually seen one in real life before. She walks closer and examines the elegant shape of it. 

The guitar itself was made of dark, gleaming hallow wood that shined in the lamplight. Its first neck was long and black, with beautiful designs beneath the strings. The longer, curved harp neck beside the guitar neck was hallow, with a heart shaped head. It was breathtaking in the least possible words.

“It’s beautiful,” Belle gave the heartfelt commented, longing to pluck a string, despite being near clueless in the music playing industry. She loved music, yes, but had never actually taken to playing an instrument besides the harmonica or kazoo. 

“Feel free to examine it,” Mr. Gold permitted, walking silently beside her like a prowling lion as Belle beamed at him, sitting down on the little bed. She felt a bit silly, to be honest. It was just a guitar. Well, a _harp_ guitar, but it wasn’t a baby.

The young librarian sat it in her lap and put her arms into position. She calmly strummed a few strings. It sounded lovely.

“You play?”

The Scotsman’s question caught Belle off guard. 

She laughs softly. “No, to be honest. I tried picking up the guitar in high school, but I chickened out when I discovered I’d get calluses. Besides, I have butter fingers!”

Mr. Gold hummed distantly, and leaned on his cane before him, clutching the handle with both hands. “Are you interested in buying?”

And just like that, the happy moment was broken. Belle stopped fiddling with the multiple strings and looked up. Of course he’d ask that. Mr. Gold was a seller, and Belle was the potential customer. Most definitely, it was why the man was suddenly civil.

“No, just… I’m sorry. Thank you for showing me, Mr. Gold.” Belle laid the harp guitar back down and arose, brushing the wrinkles in her blue sundress down. “Can _you_ play?”

Mr. Gold glowered again. “I told you I was tuning, not pla—“

“One has to know how an instrument works in order to fix it, right?”

Those dark sable eyes shifted downward. “One does,” he admitted with a sleepy sigh. Belle smiled at that.

Belle was beginning to trudge on dangerous waters. A slightly flirtatious note was growing to her tone of voice, and Belle wasn’t exactly sure where she intended whatever “this” between her and Mr. Gold was. What Belle did know was that Mr. Gold didn’t look like he wanted her to fall of the face of the earth—for right now, at least. She felt a bit gleeful for that. She wanted to relish it. She didn’t want to leave the shop to have Mr. Gold growl at her again the next time they spoke. Belle knew it was possible business that kept the two from arguing. So, the librarian decided to press on that, hoping for the best as she temped the man of her fancy with what he did best: business. 

Toped with a flirtatious cherry. 

“Then, can you show me? Maybe I’ll rethink my choice of buying or not if I can see that it works,” Belle says, toying with a curl of her hair. 

Mr. Gold looked briefly hunted. However, he leaned his cane against the foot of the cot as he took Belle’s previous seat. 

He takes the harp guitar into his lap. 

At first, he strummed a few strings absently in a tuneless song. Belle, entrapped by the possibility that Mr. Gold truly doesn’t hate music, takes the physical closeness they shared to her advantage. His long elegant fingers strum artfully, skillfully. Calluses covers his fingertips, but they seem soft enough, smoothed down through gentle, sure work as of late. 

It didn’t take long for the pawnbroker to leave his tuneless strumming. And before Belle could process what was happening, Mr. Gold breaks into an actually melody. It was “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd.

And he plays it like goddamn pro. 

Belle’s jaw dropped halfway to China. She stared at the Scotsman sitting calmly on the cot, seemingly peaceful as he expertly strummed the familiar song out on the strings, tapping the wood occasionally, almost affectionately. 

It bewitched Belle like a charm, grasping her attention and her heart. She swayed with the music, lost in the smooth notes he plucked. As he plucked strings, the music plucked her soul. It was like pure gold.

No, it was like magic. The young librarian was already smitten beyond words.

She thought it was simple attraction. Mr. Gold had an accent unlike anyone else in Storybrooke, where everyone was either born here or grew up here for most of their lives. She knew nothing of the man besides rumors of him, and that he wore suits like no body else.

But this was not simple attraction, not now, not with this enigma of a man playing the harp guitar like his heart and soul was being poured into every note. 

In this moment, this magical moment, Belle realized that she was mindlessly, hopelessly in love.

And then the magic was over. 

Mr. Gold stopped playing, and the spell it was casting over Belle was wrenched away—violently. It felt like someone just ripped her heart out. It leaves her cold and empty.

“Does it live up to your expectation, Miss French? If so, it’s price is $850.”

Yep, the spell was definitely over. 

Belle blinked awake. She met Mr. Gold’s indifferent gaze with a lax expression. It wouldn’t do to weep in his shop. He’d probably snap at her for “scaring” away business. But, then again, who came to the pawnshop anyway besides the man himself?

She nodded but declined his offer. “That was beautiful, Mr. Gold. But, I don’t think I’ll get much use out of it.”

“If you say so.”

Belle smiled tightly and turned to leave the backroom. 

To leave the pawnshop. 

To leave the man she had literally just fallen in love with.

To leave the man she would never, ever have because—clearly, he had zero interest in her.

Mr. Gold trailed her, close behind, and Belle relished his warmth and his scent one last time before departure. Her space became void and cold again as they put space between them. “Maybe you can show me again another time, Mr. Gold.”

“Yes. Another time.”

~.~.~.~.~

(Thursday Evening)

Storm and flood warnings had been playing all morning and noon. Traffic was, by sure, terrible. Water flooded the streets like miniature raging rivers, flowing over gutters and drain ditches. 

And, of course, Belle had to make a last-minute decision to visit the store. A half-hour before the interview started.

Rain poured down from the heavens as Belle bolted from the marketplace, holding her flimsy umbrella while struggling with her grocery bags. The storm had worsened since she left her apartment, and it watered and fed the panic going within her like weeds. Belle was getting soaked, and her umbrella wasn’t helping her as much as it hindered her. 

By the time reached her car, she was shivering violently. Sniveling in frustration, she tosses her bags in the passenger seat before situating herself. The umbrella was battered too badly to use again.

Her car had an untimely decision to act out. The young librarian cursed very unladylike as she cranked and cranked and cranked the engine. Finally, after what seemed like years, the car burst to life. Belle drove off, hardly taking enough time to buckle herself. Her only concern was to get home. Getting to the TV. 

Which, even given the situation, was a foolish excuse not to watch the roads properly. Belle was positive she had broken a few laws by the time she got home, and all but flew out her cat to get inside.

The television was already on, as she’d left it. Belle settled into her small living room with a happy sigh. Thank goodness she got here on time. The interview hadn’t started yet, but the little countdown timer on the corner of the screen was almost up—just five more minutes.

The storm warnings on the news channel didn’t go unnoticed. It was important to know, she knew, about possible misgivings with the weather. She just prayed that a blackout or power outage didn’t occur. 

Belle placed everything that she needed around her; on the coffee table, couch. A few small tubs of dip were arranged on the table, with two large bags of tortilla and potato chips sitting beside her on the couch. She was just snapping open a nice ice-cold root beer when a soft knock came from her apartment door. It was soft enough that Belle wondered if she heard anything at all.

She glanced at the time. The interview would begin soon, but not this very minute.

Sighing, Belle stood up and went to the door. She peeks out the peephole. And then she gasps.

“Mr. Gold.” Belle stated bemusedly, opening the door to reveal a very drenched town tycoon. The man was posed to walk away, but turned his head at her greeting to give her a slightly embarrassed/surprised expression. The young librarian suddenly felt very contious about what she was wearing—a tight faded RATQOD band t-shirt and booty shorts.

“Evening, Miss French.”

“Evening. What—Is something the matter?” 

“Yes. Someone has slashed my tires, and God has decided to give our most exquisite town a bath. Consequently, my shop is on ground level, and the flood…Well, my fault for not having efficient weatherboards. ” Mr. Gold trailed off, raising a steady, willowy hand to gesture sadly. He exposed a golden ornament ring on that hand that put much more emphasis on his wealth and statues than it should. 

Belle shook herself out of her thoughts, opening the door wider. Of course Mr. Gold couldn’t go driving home carless. In this weather, no one could even come out to fix said car or give Mr. Gold a ride unless it was an absolute emergency. Plus, given Mr. Gold’s reputation, Belle doubted he’d get a willing helping hand anytime soon. And who would stay in a shop that was or was going to get flooded? Concluding, Mr. Gold had to swallow his pride to get a little shelter. Belle, having an apartment above the library, and possibly the closest in rang, was logically his first approach.

Belle smiled at him. The bitterness of yesterday hadn’t quite left her, but Belle would never deny anyone, not even her worse enemy, a place to stay during nasty weather. “Come in, I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

The businessman jerked as if she’d slapped him. He gave her a narrowed eyed glower and grumbled. It would probably be intimidating, but with him looking like a drowned rat, Belle was trying not to laugh. “Is that supposed to be funny?” he snapped.

Belle blinked in genuine confusion. What had she said now to offend this man!? “Excuse me?”

Mr. Gold quirked an eyebrow as his scowl faded into a sharp incredulous look. “The _song_.”

“What song?”

He raised a hand and gestured figures in the air, giving a look of genuine puzzlement. “You know…. The Dylan song.”

“Who’s Dylan?”

Mr. Gold’s expression changed yet again. Now, he looks at her like she’s grown a second head. The man opens his mouth to speak but pauses, shutting his mouth. He humphed at her before mumbling a quick, “Never mind. Are you going to let me in or not?”

Belle, a little confused, nodded and stepped aside to permit the tycoon to enter. He gave his surroundings a deeply suspicious and doubtful glower as he stepped inside. “I thought the library was below your apartment, not in it.”

“Haha,” she laughed, smiling as she closes the door and locks it. “I just like to read. A lot. And these are all my own books. Do you want to get cleaned up while I find some fresh clothes? The bathroom is down the hall.”

Mr. Gold frowned. “Miss French, I asked you for _shelter_. Not room and board.”

Belle waves her hand, unfazed. “Same thing in my opinion. Besides, I’m not going to let you drip rainwater all over the place!” The man scowls at her again, but nods a stiff thank-you before slipping away to lock himself in the WC. The young librarian takes the time to scamper about her apartment like a madwoman on a mission, trying to make it the least bit presentable. 

Belle was anticipating a quiet night for crying and fangirling. Not having her crush spend the night.

After, Belle goes to find a towel, the biggest pair of sweats she owns, and a loose band t-shirt. She goes to the bathroom’s door and gives a loud knock, hearing the water run. 

“I got some clothes and a towel!”

“Just set it outside the door.” 

She does as he requests and rushes to her own room, where she fixes her attire.

A cheery announcement from a male news reporter makes Belle forget about her unexpected guest for a brief moment. She dashes away with a squeal, throwing herself down on the couch, cursing as she’d forgotten about the open bags of chips. They spilled onto the floor, and she frantically cleans up as the program started.

Tonight, Belle would finally know what happened to Rum—the man responsible for her very existence. Tonight, Belle had a chance to get a little closer to the man she’s fallen head over heels for.

Belle was not going to sleep anytime soon.


	3. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sparks fly at Belle's... or go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no song reference in this chap :/

The screen flickered on to reveal a dark, static video recording. It buzzed, and a bright neon green date blared in the lower right corner of the screen.

A dark room was revealed. It wasn’t too dark, however, to not be able to make out the details. A lone lamp sat in the corner of the room, with old couches and furniture about. The holder of the camera was clumsy or reckless, and muffled noises filled the speakers of Belle’s TV. A few pairs of feet came into view on the ever-shifting video.

The camera was finally risen up and straightened, and it landed on a very familiar figure.

Belle gasped.

It was her idée fixe. 

Rum was in a casual state of dress, not his usual hard leathers and silks. His permed dark hair framed his head and face like a messy mop, curling up in the back like a cowlick, but bouncy and wild like he’d just survived a tornado. The young Scotsman wore a rumpled wife beater with a large wet stain on the front, and a well-worn pair of combat trousers that sat low on his hips. He was barefooted.

There were tattoos covering both arms and shoulders. He wasn’t covered in tattoos, or had too much, per se, but the ones he did have were large and/or noticeable. Belle also knew that if Rum were to rip his wifebeater off, he’d reveal the terrifyingly realistic crocodile tattoo on his back.

It seemed as though the crocodile tattoo was Rum’s trademark.

 

The Scotsman had an unlit cigarette between his lips, and he brought a lighter up to his mouth with cupped hands, where he flicked the ignite switch a few times before it finally caught. He lit his joint, shoved the lighter into his pocket, and looked toward the camera. Someone asked a question to Rum. He blinked, smiled sheepishly, and drew his cigarette away between his first and middle finger carelessly. He blew a cloud of smoke out and responded with, “ _Whit wrang wi ma breeks?_ ”

“ _They’re too old. Get a new pair_ ,” someone else said, and a tall female with black hair and wearing a black surgical mask walked past him. She wore a black leather jacket and a ratty black skirt. That was Mal, Belle thought with an ear-to-ear smirk.

“ _Tae auld?_ ” Rum echoed, looking hurt. He drew another puff off his joint. “ _Ye haverin’, Mal. This bae classic_.”

Mal sarcastically glared, but walked off with a wave of her hand to sit on the couch. She picked up a beer bottle and bit the top off.

Cruella came over next. She was speaking in rapid French, and the cameraman was not keeping the recording still enough for Belle to see properly. Eventually, Cruella spoke English, and turned toward a pleasantly-relaxed Rum. “ _What do you say, darling? If we kick the bucket as a band, what shall you do first?_ ”

Rum blinked owlishly, taking a drag from his cigarette as he stared off in thought. He turned to the camera, and smiling a little, says, “ _Mm… Ah’ll gae tae law school._ ”

Everyone burst out laughing, and the recording shook as the cameraman dropped it, and shouts of different languages swamped the tape. The video eventually flickered and died.

Belle was quite literally on her seat with anticipation. She watched as the screen became lit again, and it settled on the well known interviewing room the national news channel uses.

A middle-aged woman with platinum-blonde hair wearing a stylish white dress and an elegant diamond necklace sat at a comfy purple chair with her legs crossing at the knee. A file was sitting in her lap, but it went unnoticed for the most part as the camera zoomed in on her warm, naturally pale face.

“Hello, and welcome to O’Malley News. I’m your host, Duchess Katz,” the woman explained with a smart French accent. “Tonight we will be talking to three extraordinary women who were involved in the musical movement that shook the world to its core. It has been twenty-five years since anonymous bandleader, a man called Rum, vanished from the spotlight and media with unexplained rationales. Since then, fellow ex-band members, Mallory Coatl, Vanessa Adetokunbo, and Ella Duval Feinberg, have kept silent about the affair until tonight.”

The camera zoomed out to reveal three other women sitting adjacent from Katz.

Belle immediately recognized Ursula (Vanessa). She was the woman sitting to the far right, in a fine colorful dress of wealth and beauty. Beside her, in the middle, was Cruella (Ella), in a black dress with a fur wrap around her shoulders, smoking from her famous cigarette holder. Ella smiled wickedly at the camera, and Belle shifted her gaze from her to the third woman.

Mal was very different from what Belle had seen of her younger self. As Maleficent, Mal was an all black wearing, spit-fire of a girl who never, ever showed her face. It was her own quirk, as all the RATQOD members had quirks, but it was a little odd that she refused to show her face. When Mal revealed her true identity back in early 2000, she didn’t show her face then. Now she was.

Mal had well kempt flaxen hair put up in a low bun, a black top, gray suit jacket, gray tie, and a long gray wool skirt. She was dressed for business, and had a respectable amount of makeup on. A hat sat in her lap, and a large, witch-worthy handbag sat at her feet.

“Evening, ladies,” Ms. Katz greeted with a welcoming smile, nodding at the three other women. The Queens of Darkness nodded themselves, smiles traveling around. “I hope the trip here wasn’t too tiresome? How far is home?”

Ella spoke up first. “Airlines keep getting worse and worse!” she complained in her English accent, raising her gloved hands into the air, drawing smoke symbols with her cigarette. “The people here—Don’t know how to drive.”

“Well, that is New York for you.”

“Hm. London is no better,” Ella sniffed, taking a drag. Puffing smoke, she then said, “We just prefer having tea before getting into a yelling match in the middle of the street.”

“Big cities…” said Mal, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “Not for me. I’m happy right in my quaint little Wissembourg.”

“Oh, I am so there with you, sister,” Vanessa added with a roll of her eyes. “That’s why I stay on the coast.”

Ella shot irked glances at both of her companions. “Mal, Wissembourg is a minuscule spot on the map that hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re in the twenty-first century! It’s so… so medieval. City is where the good stuff is.”

Ms. Katz effortlessly cut in and calmed the situation, moving to her next question with ease. “Mrs. Feinburg, how do you like to be called?”

“Ella is fine, darling,” Ella said, smiling. “The one on the right of me is Dragon Bitch, and the one on the left is Fish Witch.”

Mal and Vanessa fussed at that, quarreling playfully. “Just called me Mal,” she said, gesturing to nothing in a sign of explanation.

“And I’m alright by Vanessa.”

“Alright then, Ella, Mal, Vanessa. H—?”

Belle doesn’t catch the last part of what Ms. Katz has to say, for her bathroom door opens for a split second, and clicks shut after. She shifts her attention back to the TV, but of course, her watchful blue eyes return to the bathroom door.

Mr. Gold walks out with the most hunted expression she’s ever seen on him. He tugs at the long black sleeves of his shirt, glumly scratching the faded Guns N Roses symbol. The pair of sweats Belle had lent him was a tad too tight, but it did give her a nice view of his backside. 

Not that she was noticing or anything.

Flushing, the young woman stands and approaches him tentatively. “All better now?” He nods somberly. Smiling, she gestures toward the other side of the couch. “Come sit with me. Can I get you anything?”

The dressed-down tycoon nods and sits down on the couch grumpily (i.e. childishly, but that sounded too juvenile for Mr. Gold), holding what appeared to be a phone in his right hand. “Miss French—“

“Please, call me Belle.”

“Belle,” Mr. Gold said, the name sounding like pure butter off his lips. Belle shivered. “I wish to thank you again for this. Most people would have loved to let me drown out there.”

Belle tried not to cringe at the thought. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Gold. Can I get you anything? I got snacks and drinks here…”

He shook his head. “No. You’ve done more than enough. My clothes are hanging over the shower...”

“Don’t you want me to throw them in the dryer?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Most likely, the power will go out in this weather…”

“I honestly pray that it doesn’t.”

Mr. Gold grunted. Fiddling with his phone, the man nods toward the TV. “This is it, then? The interview?”

“Yes it is!” 

“Then sit and watch, Miss French. I wouldn’t want you to miss it. I’m just going to take care of a little business, if that is alright by you.”

She smiled. “Of course it is, Mr. Gold. Just let me know if I can get you anything. Or just take what you want.” Belle sat beside the man, pretending to not notice the way he tensed up at the mere centimeters that separated them. 

Returning her focus back to the TV, she tries to ignore the way he glares at the screen, or how he suddenly becomes very interested as to what’s on his phone. Of course, Belle definitely wasn’t going to let her crush distract her (of course she was).

When Belle finally toons back to the television, she realizes glumly that she's missed a rather important part.

“—parents never paid attention to me,” Mal was saying. “I did everything to get their attention. When my goth stage refused to get a twitch out of either, I went out and did the most impulsive thing I could do.”

Ms. Katz looked at her expectedly.

“I went to Scotland.”

“Ah. And, that is where you met Rum?”

Mal laughed. “There was this little pub… Called Caisteal Dorcha. The Dark Castle. It was run down, probably broke about a dozen health codes… Three older German women owned it. Each insisted I call them Auntie. There was Auntie Edna, Auntie Helen, and Auntie Birgit. And, when they found me, they insisted I come inside to get pampered. Begrudgingly, I let them. Then he walked in.

“Rum was just a year older. He was this small, scrawny little thing. The Aunties considered him to be the son they didn’t give birth to. Bruises covered his face, black eye, missing tooth. He came in and sat the counter, everyone knew him there. Drank rum. Like the drink, rum. And he grins at me, like there wasn’t a problem in the world. He asked me in English, ‘Why do you look like that?’. Naturally I respond with, ‘Why do you look like shit?’

“He just laughed and said, ‘You should’ve seen the other guy. He looks like diarrhea’.”

Ms. Katz, along with Vanessa and Ella, chuckle softly at the story. Mal was grinning ruefully, curling a blonde curl with her forefinger. “And like that, we became friends. Over the following years I would sneak away and find him in Glasgow. We’d hang.”

Ms. Katz nodded, smiling. “Did he ever explain the reason behind his bruises?”

Mal shifted uncomfortably. After a small hesitation, she says, “Well… You know his song, “Peter Pan is my Papa”?” After a quiet, somber hesitation, she went on to add, “He wrote that after his own father.”

Belle frowned. “Peter Pan is My Papa” was one of Rum’s darker songs, popularly theorized that it’s about an abusive father with Peter Pan Syndrome. Sure, it was a sad song if you just regarded the lyrics, but the music was peppy, and Rum was always so happy on camera…

The Queens of Darkness went on to explain some other stories of Rum, how they met, and some fun tidbits pits that Belle found deeply amusing, and touching. It was clear that a true friendship had been between the ladies and Rum, but Mal did, indeed, seem the closest. Belle couldn’t imagine losing a friend as dear as Rum sounded, but then again, Belle couldn’t say anything for she didn’t know the whole story yet.

Mal went on to explain that her wild behavior finally rubbed off on her parents. They sent her to boarding school. Vanessa and Ella went to the same boarding school. They all decided to play hooky on the same day, and without knowing each other, coincidentally ran into each other at Caisteal Dorcha. As hilarious as it was, none of the girls had planned to meet each other. A big cat fight ensued, each blaming the other for stalking or spying. But, of course, it was Rum to break the fight up.

Then, Rum and The Queens of Darkness was born.

During the next commercial break, Mr. Gold paced her dining room and kitchen, speaking in muted tones in a handful of different phone calls. He spoke often with two individuals he referred to as “Dove” or “Bea”.

Belle prayed that “Bea” wasn’t a girlfriend.

When the interview came back on, pictures of their early days were shown, along with some more videos.

In one, the four band members were horsing around, throwing jokes in a various different languages: Gaelic, German, French, and English.

In a second, it shows Rum flirting cheekily with a drunk Irish brunette called “Milah”. They spoke in thick Gaelic, therefore incoherent. Cruella is visible for a few brief moments, but she’s glaring daggers in Milah’s direction.

In the third tape, a woman called “Cora” is flirting shamelessly with Rum. They speak rapid French. 

In the fourth tape, Rum looks much more solemn than Belle’s used to. He wears his signature leather jacket, dark and fearsome on him. Rum’s walking beside the camera holder (who is revealed to be Mal) in a wide Scottish valley in the late autumn.

Rum looks glum.

No, he looks depressed.

At first, Belle thinks he’s chewing on what looks like tobacco, but once he pulled his hand away, the video shows it to be a bloodied blotch of napkin. His bottom lip if split.

“ _What will you do if it’s yours, Drummond?_ ” Mal asked.

Drummond. Drummond…. Belle puts the name to memory.

Rum was silent for a long time. He spits out a bit of saliva and blood. “ _Ah’ dinnae ken. Ah’ dinnae ken, Mal. Ah’ can pay bairn support, an’ whit nawt. A’ dis fuckin’ money I dinnae whit tae dae wit..._ ”

“ _Still doesn’t fix slander. What if that bitch does go public?_ ”

Rum suddenly stopped walking. He doesn’t look at the camera, but ahead into the sunset. “ _Ah’ll chust dae whit Pa did_.” 

In a fifth, Rum (shirtless!) is working out like a madman; it’s as if he’s prepping for some serious bodybuilding. Or the army. He doesn’t look happy about it. He’s panting and sweating buckets. The camera holder complains about something before the screen changes to another tape.

In a sixth, the camera holder is in a panicked frenzy. The tape’s sound is as static as crumbling paper. The screen shakes around too fast for Belle to figure out the setting. Someone is screaming in Gaelic, another in German, but someone finally shouts in English. Belle thinks it’s Mal. “ _Hold his fucking arms down! Hold him down! It’s another one of his’s fucking episodes—_ ” Belle hears Rum scream something in the background.

Screaming something like bloody murder.

Belle was so enwrapped with the confusing videos that she was deeply disappointed when they went on break. Huffing and taking a long drink of her root beer to cool down, she almost realized that she forgot about Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold was off in his own world. Texting furiously, he was so intent on whoever he was communicating with that he didn’t notice Belle lean toward him.

The person he was texting was an overseas number, and wasn’t named.

))) _Talk or show anymore and I’ll make you regret this._

__

))) _Or u’ll do what? (X’D) Cry? B‘sides, u brought this on urself._

__

))) _Then you leave me no choice. I’ll do what I do best._

__

))) _Cry?_

__

_)))Raise Hell._

Belle looked away. It felt a bit shameful that she was spying on him, but, then again, this was probably the most intimate situation she would ever get into with Mr. Gold. It was now, or…. Well, Belle would probably never get a chance to sit next to him again so casually.

“Mr. Gold?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s your name?”

Mr. Gold lowered his cellphone and gave her a wry smirk.

“I am Mr. Gold. Always have been.”

“No, no, not that,” Belle said as she pulled her knees up, hugging them. “Your first name.”

“Why is this information you desire to know?”

“Because,” she smiled ruefully, “I happen to think you’re a very interesting man, and if it’s alright by you, I’d like for us to be friends. Can’t I know my friend’s first name?”

The Scotsman glared incredulously. “I don’t have friends, dearie.”

“Well, you do now.”

Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes more, staring at her like Belle was a huge impossible puzzle waiting to be solved. Finally, he relaxed and turned back toward the TV, where a commercial for makeup was playing. “It’s not a name I’m particularly proud of.”

“Oh, come on,” she pressed. “I know plenty with terrible names but they’re amazing people. How bad can it be?”

“You may call me Gold, Miss French.”

“What?”

“I said, you may call me Gold.”

“…But, that’s what I already call you—just without the Mister.”

“Precisely.”

“Why can’t you tell me your name?”

He have her a waned frown. “Don’t push it, dearie.” And like that, Gold turned back toward his phone and began texting again. Clear dismissal.

The interview came back. Belle moved her attention away from Gold and back to the TV, eager to hear the words of the Queens.

Some pictures, in which Belle wasn’t familiar with, were shown with a little more backstory on the Queens themselves. She saw a few with Rum lounging around cheekily with a tumbler of alcohol, some with girls sitting next to, or, to Belle’s slight dismay, on him. A few pictured Mal and Rum hanging out, cooking, or tuning instruments. Others had the three women shopping or fussing about on something. When it appeared that the screen would turn back to Ms. Katz and the Queens, the picture suddenly flickered.

Then everything glitches.

Belle’s lights flickered.

Then everything turned off.

The only light came from Gold’s cellphone, which glowed an eerie shadow across his sharp face. His dark eyes met hers in that moment, silently except for the rain beating against the building. Other than that, it was as quiet as the grave.

Belle couldn’t process what happened. But shock and panic filled the back of her throat like bile. 

“I told you this would happen, Miss French.”

“Uh...”

Gold cocked his head to the side. “Are you alright?”

Unable to speak, Belle just shakes her head. Gold turns his phone off. Belle could hear him breath softly. “I take it you’re upset.”

All Belle is able to do is whine. “I was… waiting for that—for, for years—Oh my God, do you think Granny’s still has power?”

“Dearie, you’d sooner get washed away than get to the Lucas’s. And I’m sure you can find the answers you’re looking for soon enough. They don’t say patience is a virtue just for shits and giggles.”

The young librarian snorted at Gold’s brief but shocking vulgarity. This was the first time she’d ever heard Gold curse so crudely. “Right. And everyone else is getting to know while we sit here in the dark. Literally and figuratively.”

Gold sighed deeply, putting his phone back into his pocket. He gingerly picked up a soda can off the floor. Gold is quiet for a small while, but when a flash of lightning illuminated his face, casting shadows across the angels of his face, he speaks. Toying with the soda unperturbed in his hands, he says, “Why is this so important to you?”

The russet haired woman rubbed her hands together on her lap. She’s silent for a moment, just to gather her words. “It’s special.”

“Why? It’s just a band.”

“Right. A band that, if it didn’t exist, would be the reason of my non-existence.”

Gold shifted in his seat. “Pardon?”

“Rum and the Queens. They’re important to my parents.”

“Your parents?”

“Yes. I’m alive because of them. Not just my parents—of course they are the reason of my existence, but without Rum, they never would have gotten married.”

Gold gave her a hard, incredulous look.

Belle sighs. “Mum and Papa had been dating for years. Mum kept wondering when Papa would make them official, you know? No matter how many times she suggested they take what they had further, Papa would always remain hesitant. Mum was thinking about breaking up with him. Until one night, when they went to a Rum and The Queens of Darkness concert.

“They had entered this contest months ago, that gave out concert tickets and backstage passes to meet singers or musicians. This was the concert they won tickets to. After the show, they went back to meet Rum and the Queens. My Mum…” Belle laughs, “she always says that Rum knew what their problem was, and fixed it. Papa proposed three days later.”

“Wow,” Gold deadpanned.

“I know, right?” Belle sighed dreamily, ignoring his rudeness. “If it wasn’t because of Rum, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

A heavy, long silence follows.

Then Gold speaks.

“…At least the little bastard did one thing right.”

“Excuse me?”

She saw the shape of his hand wave her off in the dark. “It is but nothing. What I see as pointless is that while you can be grateful to this punk all you want, it doesn’t change anything. He was not God. He’s gone. Why do you wish to know what happened after all these years? It won’t change anything if you knew he was a fat, ugly old man living in a retirement home or a drunk dead in a ditch.”

Belle twisted the ends of her shirt in her hands. “My mom’s dying wish is to speak to him one last time. To thank him.”

Gold shifted in his seat, facing her a little more. He stays silent. Belle explained.

“She has breast cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” he responded softly.

“Don’t be. You didn’t cause it.”

He’s silent for some time. The rain continues to pour, tapping rapidly against her windowpanes and roof. Howls of wind push against the building.

After their thoughtful yet glum vigil, Gold pipes up. “I’m glad you came about.”

“Hmm?”

“Because of the band. Inevitably, Madam Mayor would have hired another librarian instead of you. One that would have been quite happy to kick me off his or her doorpost—in this weather—to drown elsewhere.” 

Belle sniggered.

~.~.~.~.~.

 

After fifteen minutes of silently sitting in the dark, snacking idly, the two decided to retire for the night.

Belle was, indeed, terribly disappointed the power went out. However, she’s not distraught. The interview will be recorded and probably re-aired by tomorrow, or posted on O’Malley News’ webpage. It wasn’t the end of the world. Belle would just have to find out tomorrow. Sighing, she stands and gropes around for her phone, and uses it’s light to guide her way to her kitchen, where she scavenges around for some candles and a lantern. Plus a few glow sticks.

With the living room illuminated a bit better now, Gold looked ready to either mock her or tease her for the glow sticks, but Belle just blushes and smirks and says, “You’re never too old for glow sticks.” Belle then throws him a glow necklace. Gold grunts at this, but puts it on the top of her TV stand.

“The couch is a pull out. But if you want, you can take my bed—I just changed the sheets this morning. It’s more comfortable.”

Gold shook his head as he assisted her in pulling the couch cushions off. “I’d rather you not give your bed to me. If your interests and your outward personality clash within those walls, I’d die before morning.”

Belle gives him a playful glare, putting her hands on her hips. “Now, now, how would that be the cause of your death if not a little thunderstorm?”

Thunder sounded from outside.

Gold wrinkles his nose briefly; he gestures toward her being. “It would be so… You. All rainbows and sunshine and glitter and shit. Then heavy metal.”

“Hey! It’s called rock and roll, not heavy metal. Though, I do have some Kiss, Black Sabbath, and Iron Maiden in my album collection.”

“Exactly. So, no, I’ll happily take the couch, thank you very much,” Gold says snippily, but instead of the impassive, bitter tone she’s used to from him, his tone held a bit of playfulness. Belle smiles at that.

“Well, alright then. I’ll go get some sheets.”

Belle hops off with a cheer in her step, carrying the lantern with her. In the hallway, she produces a set of plain cream sheets and two heavy fitted blankets. And a wool throw blanket.

It would be cold tonight, after all.

Coming back, Belle catches eye of Gold pulling the mattress out and settling it flat. His arms are stretched out, just for a moment, and the librarian’s sharp eye catches a dark mark on an exposed wrist.

“I’ve got the blankets,” she starts.

Gold’s head shoots up at her presence, looking deeply hunted for a split second before it shifts into a glare. He straightens and nods, motioning her closer.

“Don’t sneak up on people like that,” he says a little resentfully, tugging his sleeves down. Gold doesn’t meet her eyes as she places the sheets and blankets on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” Belle gently apologises, urging his gaze to meet hers as she steps closer. “If it makes you feel any better, I get freaked out by people all the time, too.”

He smiles grimly, briefly, but doesn’t say anything else.

 _Do the brave thing_ , Belle reminds herself. She thinks back to those women who flirted with Rum. They made it seem so effortless. So why couldn’t Belle flirt? Probably because Mr. Gold certainly wasn’t Rum, and Rum was much more… charismatic than her crush. In this case, Belle decided as she prepared to speak, she would have to be a little forward—or just keep running in circles.

“Forgive me terribly for intruding, but, I heard you speaking with someone you called ‘Bea’ earlier on the phone… Was that your girlfriend?”

Okay, so maybe that one was a little too forward.

Gold looked awfully confused for a few seconds, but then he broke out into a soft laugh. “No. No, Miss French, no girlfriend…” he tilts his head to the side, looking at her as if Belle was a new species of animal and he found her both fascinating and amusing. “Bea is short for Beathan. Beathan is my son.”

Oh.

A son.

Gold had a son.

Belle wasn’t sure if that was worse or better than the prospect of Gold having a girlfriend or a lover. But he did say “no girlfriend”… Oh well, the more she knew about him, the closer she could get.

And know if he was an ax murderer or not.

“Ah,” she says, pressing her cheer a little more than necessary. It wasn’t her place to question everything about him, or intrude on his business, but Gold was being more open than normal, and Belle wanted to know him. “Does he live very close?”

Gold snorted ruefully. “Bea’s been at NYC for four years. He’s studying to be an engineer.”

“Oh, wow! You must be proud!”

He chuckles, smoothing out the sheets. “He’s my pride and joy.”

An easy smile comes to Belle, then. “You must miss him. How old is he?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Nice,” Belle says thoughtfully, nodded to herself and the universe as she throws a blanket on Gold’s bed. She steps away politely, chiding herself for being too nosy.

But she couldn’t shake the fact that Gold’s son was just two years younger than her.

Hm.

Belle mentally sighs. “Do you have everything for tonight?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Goodnight, then. Help yourself to whatever you’d like from the fridge.”

Gold just nodded, and mutely watched Belle as she departed for her room.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Belle awoke before dawn.

Sitting up in her full-sized bed, the russet haired woman rubbed her eyes and yawned. It took a moment or two for her thoughts to get together, but together they came, and she looked around her room nervously.

Gold was just down the hall, in her living room, sleeping on her couch.

Gold, her crush, was sleeping on her couch.

Belle squealed with a private glee, pushing her pile of blankets back as she got up. Her bladder was begging to be relieved, and she could no longer hold it, but the sheer giddiness Belle received from knowing her crush was literally a room away kept her from leaving right away.

What if he was a light sleeper and she woke him up? What if he got mad at her for waking him too early? What if she does all this and makes a complete fool out of herself, making him hate her so much that he declares he never, ever wants to see her again!?

Belle sighed. Her mind was running ahead of herself. She just needed to pee, not propose to the man.

Quietly as a mouse, the young librarian sneaked out of her bedroom and crept to the bathroom. The power had yet to come on, but the rain had stopped to a light shower.

Once Belle relieved herself, she tiptoed back into her bedroom. She was close to shutting her door, but a dark looming figure behind her forced her to pause. She turns, startled.

Mr. Gold stood behind her, cloaked in darkness. She couldn’t distinguish any real figures, but it was definitely him. Belle tries to open her mouth to speak, but the man brings a hand up and lightly strokes her left cheek with the back of his knuckle. Speechless, the librarian watches helplessly as he steps closer, closer, forcing her to back up into her room. 

Somehow, some way, they make it to her bed, where he pushes her down and climbs over her, leering impishly like a hungry predator. 

“M-Mr. Gold--” she tries, and fails, to stop him. He was warm, too warm, and impossibly close. The man hums in pleasure, leaning down until his lips where by her ear. 

Belle felt as if she’d explode.

“You just love to play with the beast, don't you? Poke at it and call it friendliness… Why? You’re such a sweet lass, Miss French. Or is that the allusion you just give everyone else? You want this, don’t you? You actually want this old beast? Naughty girl...”

She writhed beneath him. He was so hot, so hot, she was burning...

“Quiet now, dearie. Just let this happen.”

God, she wanted this to happen.

He placed featherlight kissed along the shell of her ear, trailing down her jaw, her chin, her cheek, and finally--

~

Belle’s phone went off.

She shoot out of bed like a madwoman, frantically looking about as if an intruder just barged in. Yet there was no intruder, just her wild imagination and a dream much too tempting to return to.

The power had come back on. Her clock flashed red numbers, needing to be reset. The apartment hummed as if alive as the heater was kicked into gear, and Belle’s thermal pj’s--what she had changed into before bed--felt like a second skin from the way they clung to her with her sweat. An image of a snake shedding its skin came to mind as the young woman stripped herself of the winter nightwear. She felt better in just her panties and a tanktop; finally better, she put on a robe, grabbed her phone, and made her way outside. 

Unlike her dream (Belle blushed at the memory), she had not awoken before the sun could quite rise. It had to have been past breakfast time, and the afternoon sun shinned brightly through her white translucent window curtains. 

Maybe, Belle thought to herself, if Gold was still here, she’d make brunch for them. 

To her dismay, the pull-out bed had been put back, the couch cushions returned to their rightful place. Blankets were folded up neatly on the arm, and a pillow sat beside the pile. Atop the pillow, beneath a unopened soda can, sat a note. 

It read: 

_To Miss French,_

_Much thanks for the use of your shelter from the storm._

_~G_

“Well, at least he left a note,” Belle mumbled under her breath, accepting that she was alone in her apartment.

~

An hour later, Belle found herself at Granny’s with Ruby and her grandmother in a three-inch deep dinner pool. Volunteers to help clean the damage of last night’s storm were scurrying about, splashing in the indoor puddle like overly determined ducklings in loose-fitting rain boots. Belle nearly giggled at the thought.

“This is just ridiculous,” Granny swore as she opened the cash register to check the money amount. “Gold should’ve taken care of those weather boards ages ago!”

Ruby rolled her eyes as she helped sweep water out. “He tried to do it last week, old woman. But _noooooo_ , we can’t waste a few precious pennies for something so alien as weather boards!”

Granny glared at her granddaughter’s disrespect, but said nothing else. Belle laughed under her breath, albeit quietly. Ruby came up to her then.

“I’m so sorry for you about last night. Are you okay? No mental break down?”

Belle playfully swatted her friend. “I’m fine, really. I’ll just watch the rerun or go online.”

The other girl should have nodded and agreement, or pouted at being brushed off, or laughed, or something. Not stare at her in shock and pity. But yet, lo and behold, there Ruby was, doing just that.

“What?” Belle urged, a slight panic rising within her.

“Oh, honey. You mean you don’t know? Power didn't just go out here. It went out in every East state.”


	4. Her Handsome Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle visits Gold at his shop, goes out with her friends, and is harassed by an unwanted admirer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!Warning!!!!
> 
> This chapter has heavy language and threats of violence!

Two days following the East Cost Blackout (as the news had officially dubbed it) found Belle outside of Mr. Gold’s pawnshop with a Tupperware full of desserts. She hadn’t expected to be here today (or to see Mr. Gold any time soon), but impulsive behavior and pent up agitation regarding the Queens of Darkness’s canceled interview nearly forced the petite librarian into baking against her will. Now Belle had about a million treats she didn’t know what to do with. 

Giving her goodies to her regular library patrons and neighbors sounded like a good idea—so she did that, door to door. The next day, Belle gave more of her leftovers to the sufferers of the recent flash flood, and to Granny’s where the Lucases handed food out. 

After all that, Belle still had a lot of sweets. Cookies, brownies, oatmeal clusters, cupcakes—you name it, Belle made it. It was then that she realized a very important person close to her heart hadn’t gotten anything from her yet. 

Belle bit her lip. _Mr. Gold._

So, squishing her excitement over seeing her crush again, Belle gathered some of every treat she made into a plastic food container and made her away across the street. If Gold had the tolerance for her today, this would be Belle’s second time to enter his shop. Maybe he would even play the guitar for her again?

His shop was open; the chart that advertised his hours had been taken down, but the open sign was on, along with the lights. She pushed her way inside with a smile, admiring the cheerful bell above his door. That was one of the few things that remained intact. 

Gold’s pawnshop was not in its rightful glory like before. The water stains on the once-immaculate floors immediately arrested Belle’s attention. She twisted her mouth as she studied the water damage on some of the furniture. 

“Miss French,” Gold’s soft, sensual brogue greeted her. “What a surprise.”

Belle’s face lit up as she studied the man behind the checkout counter. He stood next to the old cash register, a massive thing near ancient. The shop was never brightly lit, and Gold stood in half shadows beneath a yellow ray of sunlight gleaming from the window. Bits of dust floated in the air like tiny flakes of gold. The expressive lines in his face were more noticeable in this light; his face sometimes makes Belle think of a tiger. _A very attractive tiger._

He looked so very dark and refined, she noted, admiring the dark red of his tie. “Hello, Mr. Gold!” Belle responded cheerfully, pushing away her appreciation for his appearance.

“Yes, hello indeed,” Gold mused with his sable eyes pinned on her. He appeared unfazed by her presence, if not irked. Before him on the counter rested a pile of paperwork. A pen rested in his fist beside them, posed to write. Following her gaze to his current objective, he tilted his head in quiet contemplation. Gold answered her unspoken question without looking up. “Damage reparations,” he sang gently.

“Oh,” Belle responded thoughtfully. Of course Gold would be doing that; he was the landlord for most, if not all, of Storybrooke. She approached him with her curiosity and extroverted nature propelling her. “Have you been doing it all morning?”

The side of his mouth quirked upward sardonically. “Since the storm ended, dearie.”

She frowned at that. “Well, even you have to take a break every now and then. Have you eaten, Mr. Gold?”

The Scotsman’s eyebrows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

Belle held up the little food bin, showing it to him with a friendly smile. “I made some sweets the other day, and I’ve too much that I don’t know what to do with! Would you like some?” Without waiting for him to respond (and she didn’t have to try too hard—he seemed to be struck dumb), Belle sat the bin on the counter and opened the lid. “You’ve got some cookies here, pecan clusters, a brownie, and two whole Anzac biscuit! It’s just like how my mom made them!”

The pawnbroker eyed the plastic bin of treats as if they were poisoned. His eyes shot up to meet hers, looking hunted. “Miss French, surely you have peers in your social circle that would be much more appropriate receivers of this.”

“Oh, please, I’ve already done that. I wanted to give these to you!”

He continued to give her a deeply cynical glower before relenting. Gold sighed and straightened his back, suddenly seeming more relaxed. “Alright… I will accept it, only because you refuse to take no as an answer.”

Belle beamed as if he’d given her the biggest compliment ever. “Great! And just because I have to ask—do you still have that harp guitar?”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 _One hit, two hit, three can’t come home tonight,_  
_Old man’s got that old tang on the tongue tonight,_  
_I can’t keep my feet on the floor tonight,_  
_Tink’s got those odd starry eyes tonight,_  
_And I just can’t stop kidding around!_  
_Ay!_  
_Peter Pan’s knocking on your window!_  
_His shadow’s nowhere to be found!_  
_Making music with his pipe and pirate drink,_  
_Nothin’ much matters when you can fly, fly, fly away!_  
_Ay!_  
_Papa’s boys don’t eat before fighting_ ,  
_Cap’n Hook’s got an eye on the paupers,_  
_All’s fun and games with no grown-ups!_  
_Don’t you wanna be a lost boy too?_

"Peter Pan's My Papa", RATQOD

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

“Is your power back on yet?” Belle asked Mary Margret over her steaming cup of Lady Gray. 

After Belle had given her treats to Gold (PS, he didn’t have the harp guitar, to her dismay), the young librarian had invited three of her friends—Mary Margret, Ruby, and Mulan—over to socialize at her apartment. Currently, all four women were sitting in Belle’s living room sipping tea (or coffee, if you’re Ruby).

“Yes, thank heavens,” Mary Margret said with a sigh of relief, taking a sip of her tea. “The maintenance guy came over this morning, so now I can have a hot shower again. Ah, sometimes I wonder what did people did before electricity.”

“They had bath tubs, and they filled it with water from a pump, then heated pots of water to make the bath warm.”

Ruby sniffed, chugging down her Irish coffee. “You keep your nose in too many books, Belle. Why don’t you ever go out and actually do things? Maybe get a drink… meet a boy…”

“I do do things,” Belle insisted, putting her teacup on its saucer with a clank. “I was out yesterday handing out cookies with you and Granny. And I do not need a boy in my life.”

“Baby, everyone needs somebody—and what crawled up your coochie today? You’re being sucha prune. When was the last time you got laid, anyway?”

“Oh my god, Ruby! I don’t want to hook up with some stranger, okay?!”

Ruby jumped. The group jumped. “Woah, okay, jeez, never mind, Belle. I was just saying.”

They got quiet. Belle frowned. She hadn’t meant to sound so mean, but Belle wasn’t completely immune to Ruby’s constant nagging of her private life. Beside her, Mary Margret shifted and gave the russet-haired beauty a concerned glance. It was Mulan who broke the ice.

“What is it?” the Asian woman asked, stiff and sharp within seconds of hearing the usually warmhearted librarian get irritable. 

“What is what?” Belle uncrossed then re-crossed her legs. Why had this pleasant evening turned against her? This was supposed to be a nice little gathering. She suddenly became very interested with the painted flowers on her teacup. 

Mulan glared. “Something’s bothering you. You were fine until Ruby brought up your private life. So what is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” she insisted, standing up to put her now-empty cup and saucer into the skin.

“That in itself says you have a problem!” hissed Mulan, standing up to hover near the breakfast bar. “Is this about that stupid band you like? The one that was canceled because of the blackout?”

“Maybe—I don’t know! I told you guys it was important!”

“Is your Mom worse?”

“No!”

“So it’s something else…” Mary Margret piped up, putting her cup on the coffee table. “You were a little red around your eyes when I got here, but I though we just chose not to bring it up. Until now.”

Belle sighed. It was inevitable to keep her friends’ concern away, and today had both pleased and frustrated Belle. 

Gold said he had moved the harp guitar to storage; he claimed that no one in Storybrooke would buy it. Belle thought this was silly, and reminded him of her love for music, especially instruments that were either rare or hard to play. If she had known Gold would squirrel the guitar away to never see the light of day again, she would have bought it for its sake alone (never mind her lack of musical talent). For some strange reason, things rapidly declined between them from there. When Belle told Gold this, he scoffed and somewhere along the lines he had made a sarcastic remark about her being, well, poor and completely hapless, therefor completely unable to buy it. 

A little hurt, Belle told Gold that she got along quite well with the library, and had money aside for a comfy little nest egg. In response, Gold said that she obviously didn’t, since she was “snow jobbing the town into liking her by baking cloying sugar candies, and who’s better to cajole than a loaded old beast?” 

Infuriated by that, Belle took her leave and swept out of his shop in a storm of confusion and rage. She angrily baked more Anzac cookies when she got back to her apartment. That took the edge off Gold’s insults, but it took her courage, too, therefor leaving the young woman deeply dejected. Not wanting to be alone in fear of crying like a whiny, heartbroken schoolgirl, Belle called her friends to come over for tea. 

Now, here they were talking over Belle’s “problem”. 

“It’s really nothing,” she said, nervously flitting back and forth in her kitchen. “I just had a bad day.”

“It’s barely 2:00,” said Ruby. She crossed her arms and gave Belle a hard look. “Come on, girl, tell us.”

Belle sighed. “Have you ever… Liked someone? Like, like like them?” Mulan’s hard glower softened. Seeing a similar look in Mary Margret’s face, and a deeply interested look on Ruby’s, Belle continued. “There’s this guy… For some reason I think he’s nice. Easy on the eyes. Classy. But, he, just, does not like me back.”

“Who doesn’t like you!?” Ruby squawked. “Everyone likes you!”

“Well,” Belle sniffed, “he’s not everyone.”

Mulan left her station by the breakfast bar and come to Belle. “Belle, has this man hurt you?”

“What? No, just, he’s a little brash.”

“Then I shall confront him.”

“No! Mulan!” she cried, waving her hands. “Do not do that! He would not take it well.”

Ruby shoot up. “So? Bastard deserves it. Sweetie, we will fight this fucker for you. Give us his address and I’ll bring the carton of rotten eggs Granny’s been trying to get me to throw out for weeks.”

“Okay, one, that’s gross. Two, no. Please. G—he’s just not the type of guy you want to make an enemy out of. I can handle him, really. I just need to get over him.”

“Well sweetie,” Ruby said, “the best way to get over a guy is to get under another!”

Before Belle could speak, Mary Margret blushed and spoke up. “Yeah… I guess. Why don’t we all go to the Rabbit Hole tonight? Tomorrow’s Monday, so I wouldn’t be able to do anything for the rest of the week until Friday.”

“Yeah, same,” Ruby said, grinning from ear to ear. She chugged down the rest of her coffee and then slammed the empty mug on the table. “Tonight, we party!”

To Belle’s horror, Mulan, the one amongst them with the most self-control, actually nods to this! _No!!!_

Belle’s three friends leave, laughing, without so much as a protest from the gaping librarian.

~.~.~.~

“Oh, my, god,” Ruby said, slamming an empty shot glass on the bar. She swayed and threw an arm around Mulan’s shoulders. “I’m so totally wasted right now.” 

Mulan, sipping on a most little cup of sake, nodded stiffly. “This is Belle’s night. We should find her a proper suitor.”

Belle could not believe her ears. 

Mary Margret, Mulan, and Ruby had come back to her apartment at 6:30 earlier that night. They practically cornered Belle, threatened her, and forced her to shower, dress, and throw some make up on for a night out. The russet-haired beauty wanted nothing to do with the Rabbit Hole tonight. What she wanted was to bake more cookies and read smutty RATQOD fanfiction and cry over sappy romance movies. Not drink into oblivion and flirt with anything that walked on two legs.

“Come on Belle,” Ruby said, untangling herself from Mulan to lean beside Belle. "You got’ta gets up and dance. Lookie~ Gaston’s giving you the _eye_.”

Belle turned around to look. Sure enough, among the smoke and glimmer of the Rabbit Hole, was Gaston Chevalier.

Gaston was not Belle’s type. No sir! The man was a very tall, very broad specimen that thought he was God’s gift to man (and woman) kind. He did not read as far as Belle knew, or even could, and only visited the library to slip really, _really_ bad pick up lines to her. What Belle found unsettling about Gaston was his desire for a family. A family was not bad in anyway, it’s just that his view of a family is, “a little wife, a few hunting dogs, and six or seven ‘strapping boys’”. 

Belle shivered. She gently set her glass of rosé down and pushed her chair back. The place was giving her a headache. Lights flickered colorfully around the room, and the people laughed and drank and danced along to loud, obnoxious music that was solely concerning sex and/or vices. 

Across the room, Gaston saw her rise and did the same from his table. He smiled widely, blinding her with his bright, overly straight teeth. Belle could not get away fast enough.

“Hiya, Bells. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hello, Gaston, and yes, I can say the same. How are you?”

“Good! Really good. Just hanging out with the guys…” he nods toward his table of friends. “And you?”

“Thank God,” Belle says evasively. “I was just leaving.”

“Aww, that’s too bad. Well, call me sometime and maybe we can come here together,” he winks, and walks off to return to his friends, who laugh and slap him on the back. Someone whistles at her. 

Belle groans and turns to Mary Margret. The other mostly-sober woman stands up and smiles. They shared an equal look of understanding. “Are you ready? I think Mulan and Ruby are two sheets to the wind.”

“Yeah,” Belle said, smiling. They turned to their friends and coaxed them into leaving, and after much talk, they finally agreed to come. 

“What about James Prince? He likes you!” Ruby told Belle when they were leaving the Rabbit Hole. “Gave you goo-goo eyes alllllll night.”

“James is a player,” Mulan hiccupped, “and he’s boinking that bitch Jackie.”

“Ewwww. So, what ‘bout his brother, David?”

“Hey,” Mary Margret interjected, “that’s my boyfriend.”

“Double ewww….”

They argued drunkenly until Mary Margret and Belle could get them home. With their friends safely tucked inside their respective homes, Mary Margret wished Belle a goodnight and departed her at the corner, where they both went in different directs for home.

The night was cool against Belle’s skin. Her body shivered; her teeth clattered. It was cold, and her skin-tight, strapless yellow cocktail dress did nothing to warm her. Belle’s black flats tapped softly against the concrete. Puffs of steam left her with each exhale. 

“My, my, what a pretty little thing you are,” oozed a painfully flirtatious voice. A shadow fell across her side from a night lamp, and Belle jumped in surprise.

It was Keith Nottingham. 

Keith did not come to the library, but flirted with her on occasion at Granny’s. He didn’t constantly pester Belle like Gaston, but that didn’t make him any better. It could be any day of the week and Belle would always choose Gaston over Keith. Even though she didn’t like Gaston.

“Hello, Mr. Nottingham,” Belle said politely, walking with more determination. Home was where she needed to be. Surrounded by books and cookies and music. 

“And hello-hello to you, my lovely litle creature,” Keith drawled, leering at her. “It’s pretty cold out tonight. My place isn’t too far away. Got my heating back on today.”

“That’s all quite good,” Belle said, nodding distantly. “I hope you enjoy it.”

Keith put a hand on her elbow. She jerked her arm away. “You could enjoy it with me.”

“Thank you but no thank you.”

“Come on, babe, I don’t bite—hard.”

Disgusted, Belle shook her head and began to walk faster. She was actually close to jogging. “I’m not interested.”

He scoffed. “Why? Got a man at home?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? That don’t sound right.” Belle cringes at his grammar. “I’ll give you a good time. Can of beer or two… I got a pretty big bed. A California king.”

“No.”

Keith was refusing to take no as an answer. Belle was speed walking now, and just up ahead, she saw the library, and sighed in relief. She tightened her arms around her. Across the street stood Mr. Gold’s pawnshop. The lights were shining a soft golden glow. Was he still working on those papers?

Shaking her head, she turns to Keith. “I am going home, Mr. Nottingham. By my self.”

“I’m amazing company.”

“While I’m sure you are, I just do not feel up to having company tonight.”

The man sneered. “And you’re the proof all librarians are prunes.”

Belle really wanted to slap him then. Almost as badly as she wanted to slap Gold earlier. However, she knew Keith was not a forgiving type, or one to respect a woman’s boundaries, so she kept her hands to herself. Glaring, Belle hisses, “And you’re the proof that men are pigs. Goodnight, Mr. Nottingham.”

Just as Belle was reaching for the library’s door, with her keys in hand, Keith grabbed her arm and spun her around. His eyes were hard and his breath stank of bitter alcohol. He did let go of her, but cornered her against the doors. “I’m tryin’ to be nice, you cunt.”

“I’m trying to go home.”

“You got a real smart mouth; you can use it in a much better way, like on my dick.”

Belle pressed herself harder against the library. Her eyes stung from impending tears, but she refused to. She would not be intimidated by one man.

“I would rather risk getting toxoplasmosis*”

“Why you little—“ Before Kieth could get another word out, a shadow loomed over him. The russet-haired beauty gasped aloud as a black and golden shaft came down and struck Keith on the head. He yowled in pain and crumbled to the ground, clutching his crown. “Fuck!”

“Mr. Nottingham,” crooned a smooth, air-cutting voice. “I believe the lady said no.”

Belle’s eyes shot up to meet her savior’s.

Mr. Gold stood over Keith with visibly surprised wrath. His dark eyes glared disapprovingly, mouth pursed in a white line. He set his cane down, and folded both hands over the handle in front of him. Leaning against it, he meet Keith’s bewildered stare. “I would think an apology is required.”

“What the hell is your problem, old man!?” shrieked Keith, swaying as he stood up to face Gold. His eyes burned with rage, and Belle pussyfooted away to watch both men. 

Speaking with eerie calm, Gold responds with, “I don’t have a problem.”

“Fuck off. Belle’s my girl, okay? Now bounce.”

“Your girl?” the older man echoed darkly. His eyes met hers to the side. “I think not. Miss French, are you affiliated with Mr. Nottingham in an intimate way?”

“No,” she says vehemently. 

“See? Now, give the lady an apology. Tick-tock, dearie.”

“Apologies? Fuck, no. She’s askin’ for it, the hoe.”

Gold’s eyebrow quirked. His face remained stoic, otherwise. “Mr. Nottingham, aren’t you a few hundred dollars behind on this month’s rent? Would you like to discuss your plans on mending that?”

At this, Keith got a bit sheepish. He shoot a look at Belle, who stared helplessly at the two. When she didn’t move to stop him, he growled.

“Whatever. Have fun fucking the cripple, Belle.” 

As Keith turned to leave, Gold’s cane flipped up to stop him. The younger man wheezed loudly as it hit his gut, hard. “I didn’t hear you give an expression of regret to Miss French.”

Teeth gritting, Keith spats at Belle, “Sorry, okay!? God!” 

Gold let the other male go, and Keith marched off, swearing every cuss word in the book as he disappeared into the cold night. Silence fell between Belle and her savior. She gaped at him with watery blue eyes in disbelief and aw and love all at once, and he stared at her shoes. Who was this man? Who was this man who listened to her problems, yet chided her interests? Who was this man who accepted her sweets with awkwardness, but said mean things to get her to leave him alone? Who was this man who defended her virtue, but said it was nothing? Mr. Gold, that’s who.

“Miss French. I believe you’re free to go home, now.”

She opened and closed her mouth like an idiot before sound could be formed. “M-Mr. Gold. T-Thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” he said brusquely, breathing in and fidgeting with his hands. “I was merely pulling you two lovebirds apart. If you haven’t noticed, you are directly across from my shop. Public affection does horrors to the concentration. And besides, Mr. Nottingham does owe me.”

If it had been months before, Belle would have been deflated and saddened at his indifference. However, seeing his constant shift between being kind and being cold, she figured something out. 

Gold was intimidated by her kindness. And like a wild animal, he hissed and growled at her foreignness. 

Having this revelation, Belle’s heart swelled for him. _God, I love him!_

“Well,” she sniffed, “I’m thanking you anyway. Thank you.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. I’m thanking you again.”

“There you go again. Don’t wear my welcome out.”

“Mr. Gold,” Belle sighed, stepping closer. “I think you are a very layered man with a very soft heart.”

He raised an eyebrow in confusion. “I think you need to go to bed, dearie.”

“I think you should join me.”

Belle didn’t quite get what she said until Gold’s eyes widened. She blushed a million shades of red. 

Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was Keith’s harassment. Maybe it was her sleepiness. Maybe it was stress. No matter what it was, Belle had shamelessly invited Gold to have sex with her. Oh, goodness, what was she doing? Why did she have to open her mouth!? She wasn’t as forward as Rum! 

Was she?

“Miss French,” Gold said, raising a hand to hide half his face. He shut his eyes. “I see you’ve had one too many.”

“Too many of what?”

“Again, I can see your front doors from my shop. Your companions, Miss Lucas, Blanchard, and Hua, quite dragged you away to some… party?” he gestured toward her outfit.

“They made me go, but I wanted to finish my current book tonight.”

“Why didn’t you insist on staying home, then?”

Ignoring his question, she counters him with, “Why do you work so much?”

Gold frowned. “I believe I’ll take my leave now, Miss French.”

“No, wait!” she squawked, rushing to meet him as he turned to go. He glares at her, and she has no desire to back down. To her relief, he stops, and leans on his cane, which stands between then. 

“What is it now? I have things to do.”

“My… my invitation still stands….” She shyly gestured toward the library with her eyes. He glared. Flushed, Belle adds, rather hurriedly, “I-It doesn’t have to be anything bad. You could come in for just tea.”

Gold sighed deeply and bowed his head. After a moment, he looks up to meet her eyes. “You’re offer is tempting, but I am serious when I say I have work to do.”

“Even you must rest, Mr. Gold.”

His eyes softened. But it was brief. Very brief, and Gold turned to move around her, toward his shop. Away from her. 

“Goodnight, Miss French.”

“…Goodnight, Mr. Gold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Toxoplasmosis is an illness that can be contracted by exposure to cat feces.


	5. So Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tinuviel-undomiel said:  
> Join the Fan Club: Belle hears Gold singing a song and compliments his beautiful voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE shoutout to [tinuviel-undomiel](http://tinuviel-undomiel.tumblr.com/)! I needed prompts, and you gifted me with them! Thanks a bunch! :)
> 
> Warning: not edited.

At the start of the week, Belle was refreshed and ready to start her day. The weekend prior was rocky and wild; flood damage was evident throughout the town like an unwelcome full-body bruise. Help, however, was not lacking, and every available helping hand was at the ready and waiting. Storybrooke made a speedily recovery from the storm, to put a long story short.

Today things would be going back to normal. Belle would reopen the library, Granny’s B&B back to its former glory, the nuns to their convent—even Leroy was returning to work today. 

Invigorated by her thoughtful outlook this morning, she gathered her things so she could run down to the library below, and did so with a soft smile on her face. She was wearing her favorite blue dress with a beige belt, black flats and a delicate rose-gold necklace. It would be a good day, she decided, and she would not let silly things like her crush’s indifference or unwelcome flirtation from jerks get to her. 

She cheered, “Good morning!” to each and everyone of her patrons, who smiled back brightly as they entered her library throughout the day. Everything went smoothly that morning, with her usual peeps coming and going, checking out or returning books. It left her feeling satisfied with the day’s work, and she hummed to the tune of “The Tragedy of True Love” by RATQOD as she puttered down an aisle, pushing her book cart along as she returned the tomes back to their rightful places.

Distracted by her current task and the peppy song whispered from her lips, Belle did not notice the figure looming behind her until the tiny hairs on the back of her neck shot up. The creeping feeling of being watched filled her gut, and she turned around with wary eyes.

A strange young man was behind her, younger by a few years, posed to touch her in a way of getting her attention. When they made eye contact, he smiled boyishly and put his hand down. “Hi,” he said, “but I couldn’t help but notice the song you’re singing. Rum and the Queens, right?”

“Oh, _yes!_ ” Belle said, her uneasy feeling vanishing into pure delight. “I’m a ridiculously big fan.”

It seemed like no one in Storybrooke knew anything about RATQOD. It was odd, since during their short time of fame in the music industry they were widely known. _Almost_ like the Beatles, though RATQOD was more alternative punk than anything else. 

The boy was taller than Belle, and had a few piercings along his face. He had shaggy blonde hair that was dyed with purple tips, and he wore a black T-shirt with a faded image of RATQOD’s main album—a black-and white photo of Ursula and Cruella sitting back-to-back, with Mal kneeling behind him wearing her dragon mask, and Rum sitting impishly in front of them with that devilish glint in his eyes.

Immediately recognizing a kindred spirit, she leapt up and beamed with excitement, and he did the same as well, even clutching her hands in his own. “Oh my god, I can’t believe there is like, _actually_ another RATQOD in public! I thought it was some huge secret!”

“I know!” squealed Belle, letting him go. “I’m literally the only one here who likes them. You don’t look familiar—are you passing through? No body visits Storybrooke.”

“Yeah, actually,” he said, smiling widely. In the light, and in both of their visible elation at finding another nerd apart of their little fandom. “Headed up to Boston for the convention.”

“Convention?”

His happy expression melted away into shock. “You don’t know? The Rock-n-Roll Convention. Rumor has it that the Queens will be there!”

“Get _out_ ,” Belle exclaimed, gabbing the young man’s hand. Too thrilled and shocked to care, she pulled him to her desk, where she backed him against the corner. “What convention? When? How did—“ 

Chuckling, he said, “It’s happening in two weeks. After the blackout, the Queen said they would try and make up for the let-down. A couple of my buddies in New York said a huge event was taking place at the upcoming music convention. They definitely implied the Queens. I.D.K. about you, but I’m _seriously_ hoping for a performance from them!” 

Though Belle felt silly for being a fan who wasn’t up to date, she couldn’t let herself feel guilty. The blackout was an obvious reason for her lack of involvement, and baking and helping Storybrooke get over the storm damage had taken up a lot of her time… Not to mention a certain silverfox across the street. All in all, Belle had not been keeping up with the RATQOD fandom. 

“Oh. My. God.” Belle gasped. Impulsively, she grasped his wrists and leaned in close. “I don’t know how I’ve missed this. You have to give me more information about this music convention you amazingly beautiful, wonderful man—“ 

“Miss French.” 

Belle yelped in surprise and let go of the younger male, and spun around to face none other than Mr. Gold, who was standing in front of her desk staring at her and her companion. 

He glowered at them both with unreadable and hard eyes, and a small, thin frown upon his lips. The Scotsman held several books in his arms, which had pictureless covers and worn spines. His silvery brown hair fell to his shoulders, wavy and thick as she remembered, and overall groomed and well-put together. He wore the same red tie he had on the day they met, and she could have sworn she smelled something akin to men’s cologne about him. In Belle’s opinion, Gold always looked nice, but today he was especially so. 

Pinning her with dark sable eyes, he muttered, “I’d think that snogging should be reserved for afterhours… and behind closed doors.” 

Immediately, an embarrassed blush bloomed across her face, burning her eyes and ears. A strange sense of panic filled her gut, nearly rendering her of words, but once her racing thoughts caught up to her she exclaimed, “M-Mr. Gold! I didn’t see you come in! Are you here to check out or—“ 

“No, no,” he said, sniffing as he turned his face away from her. “None of that nonsense. I came to drop this off.” Gold, his expression not changing, unceremoniously dropped his load of books onto her desk. They landed with a bang, dust flying as the little tower of volumes lost balance and spilled across the desktop. Belle flinched, and held back a passionate spiel to explain herself. 

Yet, why should she explain herself? She’d done nothing wrong. This young man she was interrogating was someone she’d just met, despite having cornered him behind her desk, and by his dress and hand motions, this blonde young man was openly gay. That thought didn’t sooth her sudden burst of anxiety, and she still felt the need to explain her platonic relations with her new friend. 

“Um—“ Before she could get a word out, Gold cut in smoothly, effortlessly, and tipped his head to her in a impassive farewell. 

“Old books I have no use for. Have a good day, Miss French,” he said, and then left before she could chase after him. 

~.~.~.~

The young man’s name was Nicki, and he managed to give her some more details on the convention before he had to leave with his boyfriend. The three of them chatted for a while, eventually swapping numbers for their shared love of Rum and the Queens. She was still overwhelmed by the growing re-awareness for RATQOD when the nice young couple left, and by her terse encounter with Gold. She decided to close early for the day. 

The books Gold had given her—no, disposed of upon her—were first-addition classics. Belle, having locked up before the sun went down, was already on the verge of tears by the little misunderstanding that took place here. Yet again she felt a choking swell of emotion in her chest and throat, squeezing her throat muscles. Gulping, she placed dusty copies of _Clarissa, The Woman in White, Wuthering Heights, Great Expectations, The Scarlet Letter, Birds of America, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, For Whom The Bell Tolls,_ and _The Illustrated Man_ into the library’s backroom to be dealt with later. They were all in excellent condition, not to mention brilliant books in and of themselves. Belle had read _Great Expectations_ twice around, and she adored everything by the Brontë sisters—and who didn’t know anything about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? 

Having new books always thrilled her, and she paced the library several times until she couldn’t pace anymore. She wanted to run to Gold and thank him for the books, but shame held her back. This angered her, frustrated her to the core, and ruffled all of her feathers. Belle finally settled on slinking back to her apartment and calling her parents to see how they were doing, taking the new books with her.

“The library’s doing fine,” she said, eating ice cream out of the carton, barefoot and emotionally seeped in self-misery. “Met another RATQODer today… There’s going to be this huge music convention in Boston in two weeks. I would go, but I don’t think Mayor Mills will let me off work for that long.”

 _“That's stinky,”_ Belle’s mother sighed on the other end. She heard the sound of a rumbling machine, and possibly wind, and checked it off to the hospital monitors and an open window. It sounded like her mother was feeling better, and Belle smiled because it comforted her beyond words. Moe had left to go to the cafeteria, according to Colette, just before Belle called. _”Can’t take a sick day for a few days then?”_

“Haha, okay Mum, I’ll just plan to get the flu two weeks in advance.”

_“Mhmm… Now, enough idle talk,” Colette said, voice lowering to a serious tone. “Tell me about this man of yours.”_

“W-what?” Belle stuttered.

_”Sweetie, it’s just us chickens here. I would like to know a thing or two about the man you’re hung over.”_

“I’m not—“

 _“Young lady, don't act like I can't hear it in your voice. Don’t think I can’t hear you eating_ _Ben & Jerry’s_ _either_.”

Guiltily, Belle put the small container of cookie dough ice cream down. “Something really stupid happened today.”

“ _What kind of stupid?_ ”

“Ugh, just a dumb misunderstanding. The guy I met today, well, we were talking pretty close and against my desk, and suddenly Gold walks in and—and says 'snogging should be for afterhours'. I've never been more frustrated in my life.”

“ _Hmm…_ ”

“And then he dumped this huge pile of books with me!” Belle picked up _Birds of America_ , and with care flicked through the delicate pages of illustration. “I’ve got a book here that’s probably illegal for me to own, it’s that bloody expensive.”

“ _What did he do after?_ ”

“He left. Said “have a good day, Miss French”, in that stupid accent of his and left. Just left. What do I even _do—_? I mean, he basically saved me from getting molested this past weekend-”

" _What?!_ "

"Some guy name Keith. Gold stopped him from hurting me."

“ _Oh baby, baby, baby,_ ” Colette said, her voice tired and weary, but love shining through her pain. “ _This man... Oh, this man. I already give you my blessing. He obviously cares about you! And how many times must I teach you this? Do the b—_ “

“Brave thing and bravery will flow… I know, mama, believe me, I know.”

~.~.~.~

Belle felt absolutely ridiculous. 

Here she was, yet again, dressed way too careful to just thank somebody for books, standing in front of Gold’s pawnshop, and filled with a mix of emotions that fought and swirled within her. 

She swallowed, though her mouth was dry, and stared at the handle of his shop. Chiding herself for feeling embarrassed, but determined to show her true appreciation for his act of kindness from the time he saved her from getting, quite likely, raped, and from the books this morning.

Taking a deep breath, she made her way to the front door. 

She carefully slipped inside. Blue eyes immediately arrested by the fascinating items within Gold’s shop, she did not step inside with loud steps, rather she tiptoed in, as if one big step could shatter the glass mobiles on display. 

The sun shining in her eyes, and the dusty air of the shop, she prepared to speak out and announce her arrival, for the bell above the door had not made any sound or movement within the shop to suggest Gold had heard her.

It was then she heard the singing.

_“Love, let me sleep tonight on your couch…”_

Puzzled, Belle’s interest shifted from Gold’s antiques toward the backroom, still covered by a curtain for privacy. 

_“And remember the smell of the fabric, Of your simple city dress…”_

Gold was singing. Singing! Amazed and shocked and stunned, Belle crept to the backroom, where she peeked open the curtain to pear inside. 

_“Oh, that was so real…”_

The small town tycoon was hunched over his worktable, tweaking at a silver pocket watch that gleamed in the yellowish lamplight above him. His lips moved softly as he sang, his voice a low timbre. Something about his voice sparked something akin to déjà vu in Belle, but she was so engrossed with this extraordinary new side of Gold that all she could focus on was him.

 _Why do you keep giving me reasons to love you harder?_ She thought dreamily.

She must have made a sound, or said something, because Gold abruptly stopped singing and swung his head upward, meeting her gaze almost instantly. With a muffled gasp, his eyes widened significantly and he bolted upward, his chair shoved backward with a loud screech of it scrapping the floor. He did not make a smooth get up, and Belle cringed in sympathy as Gold’s head made sharp contact with the lamp, nearly knocking it to the floor in his haste. He stumbled to a standing position, but limped away from the worktable, still baring the same feral look in his eyes like a fearful wild animal.

He hadn’t taken his cane, and visibly winced as he realized he left his stick by the table. Belle, having seen enough of his troubles, took pity and marched over with a surprising amount of grace and took his cane. Handing it to him, pointing the handle in his direction, she said, “I didn’t mean to startle you,” hoping to rid the wild-eyed look from him.

Gold composed himself quickly, and wiped his hands down his sides and front as if to rid wrinkles off his flawless suit. Sniffing, he replied, “You should make sound, Miss French, when approaching me.” The man snatched his cane from her, glaring daggers in her direction.

“Um, okay?”

She watched as he limped to the other side of the room, visibly trying to be as far away from her as possible. Logic told her that he was indeed pissed at her for intruding on his privacy, and sneaking up on him, but really, his shop was always open, and anybody could waltz in at any given moment. Then again, Belle had not seen many walk into his tiny yet remarkable little shop besides the mayor or some desperate soul seeking a money loan or a rent extension (of which was rarely, if ever, given. Belle was glad he wasn’t her landlord). For now Belle kept her distance, and watched with inner wretchedness for Gold looked quite distressed by her presence, and how he breathed raggedly, as if trying to calm himself but having significant difficulty, was equally bothering to her as well. Gold was going to be alright, right?

“I suggest you knock next time,” he said once his breath was back. He began to fiddle with something on a shelf, back turned toward her. “Or open the door hard enough to signal the bell.”

She pressed her lips together in a thin white line. “The bell did go off, but you were singing… you have a beautiful voice, Mr. Gold.” 

He sharply glared at her over his shoulder.

“Sorry, but it’s true. Have you ever thought about joining a choir?”

“A _choir?_ ” He hissed, as if the very notion offended him and his ancestors. “You—“ his eyes flickered up and down her figure, making Belle feel hot and in the spotlight all of a sudden. Gold took a deep breath and let it out noisily. With a noticible limp, he sulked to the front room of his shop, beckoning her to come. Belle followed without a word.

“What can I help you with, dearie?” Gold asked her, returning to his spot behind the cash register. He folded his hands together over the handle of his cane. It was obvious, in the young librarian’s eyes, that he was making great efforts to appear put-together, but there was a twitch in one of his eyes, and fingers were red from how hard he squeezed them. _Did I frighten him_ that _badly?_

“Um, well, I wanted to thank you for the books—“

“Shouldn’t you be sharing them with your young man?”

“My—?” Belle’s brain rattled around for the meaning of his words. “I don’t have a _young man_.”

His eyes zeroed in on hers, pinning her with his judgmental stare. With a mocking laugh, he said, “Oh, so you just go around screwing any man who will indulge your fantasies?”

Bitter chagrin flushed her pale face, but anger was there too, and Belle felt herself begin to fume at his brash behavior. This would not be the first time Gold had done this to her before. It still hurt, though. 

“That young man, who was only twenty, is my new friend. His name is Nicki. He’s here with _his_ young man.”

Gold’s eyes flickered downward to her belt. “His… young man,” he echoed.

“Yes.”

“So, you—“

“I was fangirling with him, Mr. Gold. Over Rum and the Queens.”

“Ah. Fangirling.” He deadpanned, as if that answered every question in the universe.

“I’m single.”

His eyes shifted back to hers. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I’m single. I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Well, alright then...”

“Mhmm.” 

Gold’s sable eyes became shifty, then, and he turned away from her to face the shelves behind him. He was very quick with his fidgety hands. “Well, that’s good. I mean, for you. I mean, good for the library. Your business. Relationships are fickle things! Young women like you shouldn’t—I mean—Boys are nothing but trouble—“

Belle’s heart filled with affection. Every ounce of her anger toward him subsided into nothingness, replaced by her love. Cheeks still burning, and her lips stretched into a wide, toothy smile, she says, “I couldn't agree more, Mr. Gold. I have always preferred older men. After all, I’m still saving myself for my soulmate Rum.”

To her alarm, Gold let out a broken gasp mixed with a whine. He suddenly reached up to the shelf and grabbed a small vintage ceramic egg, and began to be very interested in it. “That is completely preposterous, Miss French.”

“How many times must I ask you to call me Belle?” She laughed at his poorly concealed fluster. “And I’m joking. That ship's already sailed. I think I lost my virginity in the back of a SUV in high school. Pretty sure his name was Will.”

She heard him go very quiet. “You… you _think?_ ”Gold’s voice lowered considerably, head turned at a 90 degree angle to his left shoulder.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Sorry, just in a joking mood…” Belle lied. “But, like I said, I’m here to thank you for the books. That was very thoughtful of you.”

Gold shrugged his shoulder, still refusing to turned back toward her, but he was indeed looking at her, now. “I was being honest. They took up too much space, and I know they will have better chances of survival with you… Though they will most likely be lost in the mess of your establishment.”

Belle couldn’t keep in the deep, throaty laugh at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Gold is singing is "So Real" by Jeff Buckly! I do not own it!


	6. Year of The Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _tinuviel-undomiel_ said:  
>  Join the Fan Club: there is an old, unfinished song Gold has and he’s beginning to feel inspired to write it again, though he won’t admit the song is about Belle.  
> AND: Could the renewed interest in the band due to the interview lead to shops selling new merchandise, even reaching the town of Storybrooke?
> 
>  
> 
> !!!!ALSO: Shoutout to _"CatsMeow"_ , who threw me a bunch of prompts, too. Thank you<3 (Mr. Gold's POV is in this chap, hun!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naturally I don't bloody edit shit, but someday I will return to this chapter to do just that. Today is not that day.

_**litmermaid** has logged on._

_Bluestock!ng_ : Hey!

 _litmermaid_ : hey yourself lady <3 Where’ya been?

 _Bluestock!ng_ : Busy. RL has been insane.

 _litmermaid_ : aww.

 _litmermaid_ : you’ve missed alot! We had ratqod fanfic choice awards. 

_Bluestock!ng_ : Oh. What fic won?

 _litmermaid_ : weeeeeelllll ;)

 _Bluestock!ng_ : ??

 _litmermaid_ : It has to do with romance… fantasy… & did I mention romance?

 _Bluestock!ng_ : Um, one of Wicked’s? She’s got a bunch.

 _litmermaid_ : …i cant believ u said that :|

 _litmermaid_ : it’s u ya silly head!!!! All your fics are BOMB///!!!!

 _Bluestock!ng_ : What?? Seriously?

 _litmermaid_ : Gurl, u do realize OUAT is like, the prize example of ratqod erotic trash? Your char Bella won ‘best oc’ last year. Not to mention ouat is 100 delicious chapters of slow burn romance, a billion references to ratqod songs and themes, great in-characterness, and sMUT??? DID I MENTION SMUT??? & ppl gave bella and rum a ship name!! u remember??? THIS FUCKING FANDOM ONLY HAS EIGHTY FICS, BLUE, EIGHTY. YOU ARE VITAL TO THIS TINY SHIP-DOM.

 _Bluestock!ng_ : …Don’t remind me... I wrote that silly story because I was bored and needed rum smut.

 _litmermaid_ : everyone thinks the same, hunny bunny. but didnt u feel a LITTLE bit happy every nerd on this dumb site began the whole #rumbella tag??

 _Bluestock!ng_ : …Okay. Maybe a little.

 _Bluestock!ng_ : Why don’t you write something, Mer? You’ve always got great prompts :o

 _litmermaid_ : Now, now, blue! Flattery will get u everywhere. And lol no. I just do the beta work ;D

_**wickedwitch13** has logged on._

 _litmermaid_ : yo.

 _wickedwitch13_ : What r u doing back here, blue?

 _Bluestock!ng_ : Hi, Wicked.

 _Bluestock!ng_ : Excuse me?

 _litmermaid_ : um

 _wickedwitch13_ : You haven’t logged on in a month. That’s a silent statement that you quit the fandom. 

_litmermaid_ : hey let’s be nice here. Blue’s been busy with rl shit.

 _Bluestock!ng_ : Have I missed something major besides the awards? 

_litmermaid_ : Wicked, you got third place, right?

 _litmermaid_ : ooooh yeah, blue, forgot to mention your second fic won second place, and ‘best fix-it fic’.

 _wickedwitch13_ : I’ve been writing longer than u both.

 _Bluestock!ng_ : I didn’t know I won again… There’s always next year :) And I think your fics are great, Wicked!

 _wickedwitch13_ : U know what I can’t stand? 

_wickedwitch13_ : Asskissers. Fuck off.

 _litmermaid_ : what the hell wicked?

 _Bluestock!ng_ : I apologize. I was not aware there was a problem.

 _wickedwitch13_ : U think you’re so fuking posh, get off your high horse. 

_Bluestock!ng_ : I didn’t intent to upset anyone.

 _wickedwitch13_ : u’r still doing it? Wow, who r u trying to impress?

 _litmermaid_ : okay, that’s enough wicked. this is rude.

 _Bluestock!ng_ No that’s alright. I have to go.

 _litmermaid_ : wait, blue, we need to talk about the secret gift fic exchange! 

_**Bluestock!ng** has logged off._

~.~.~.~

{Tuesday}

Belle had written a significant amount of trash for the RATQOD fandom site. Most of those had been dirty one shots, some lengthier than others. Her one multi chap fic, however, had wondrously won a few awards. She had written them in her leisure time, with her online pal _litmermaid_ to beta them. It was for the sole purpose for entertainment—nothing more. The multichapter fic, titled _Once Upon a Time_ , had been written years ago, and she still wrote for it from time to time. It was a fanciful version of Rum and the Queens, set in a fairytale world with them as actual sorcerers based upon their stage characters. Rum, of course, had been forced into the role as Rumplestiltskin, pulling several themes off of his song “I Always Felt Bad for Rumplestiltskin”. Besides this, Belle had also thrown in an OC, whom she named. Well. Bella. 

Apparently the fic was a favorite in the fandom.

Unsure how to handle that, because she had been too busy to check her email for notifications from the site, she shrugged and went about her day. 

First things first Belle had to make a stop at the grocer. She waved to the clerk and the few people who’d gone in this morning. She grabbed the things she needed. Bobbing her head to the old pop song playing in the store, carelessly mozying on up to the checkout line. It was all the usual, typial gum displays and candy, with the few odd keychains and cute Maine postcards, not to mention RATQOD merchandise—

_RATQOD MERCHANDISE!?_

Belle’s jaw almost dropped open, hastily dropping her stuff on the counter as she became completely enthralled with the display. It was a tiny offering in a small box on the shelf, but neat nonetheless. The box housed key chains of her favorite rockers, in little cartoon chibi shapes. 

“I’ll take one of each,” she announce, grabbing once for each band member to add to her things.

 

~.~.~.~

{Wednesday}

It was raining again. Jogging down the street in her blue lace dress, clutching her coat around her tighter, she shivered and wished she’d dressed better for the sudden change of weather. Raindrops landed on her umbrella in soft pitter-patters, dripping off the sides around her. Her heels clicked rhythmically on the sidewalk, and one of the keychains she’d just bought rustle gently in her coat pocket. It all reminded Belle of a RATQOD song—“Devil of the Deep Blue Sea”.

Just up head, to her pleasure, stood Gold. He was standing stoically at the crosswalk, waiting to cross over as the cars drove languishingly by. It wasn’t very sunny out due to the rain, but the small town tycoon still wore a pair of high-end sunglasses. She broke out a bright smile and approached him, making sure to use louder steps than normal. She didn’t want to startle him like last time. The last thing she wanted was to see that flash of wide-eyed terror in his eyes. _Why’s the most powerful man in town terrified of a little jump scare…?_

“Good morning, Mr. Gold!” Belle cheered happily, striding down the street with her blue lace dress flaring in the wind. 

Gold jerked in surprise at her sudden appearance, looking up from what was in his hand. He’d been engrossed with his phone, texting furiously, using the other hand to hold his own umbrella up. His cane rested between the junction of his legs, and Belle tried not to let her eyes wander downward. When he looked up at her he lowered his phone. Though his eyes were tired and distant, he gave her a tight smile and a stiff nod.

It wasn’t the greeting she wanted, but it was better than a glare. Relishing in the small victory, she smiled and sauntered up beside him. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

“It’s delightful,” he said impassively, shoving his phone into his pocket while purposefully keeping his face away from hers. He grabbed his cane with his now-free hand, and she noted the way he stood ramrod straight, to how tightly he gripped the handle of his cane. Briefly, she wondered where he was headed off to in such a rush, because clearly he was ready to leap across the street the moment he had the chance.

Close enough to him that their umbrellas were nearly touching, she beamed and commented, “Did you hear about the rock-n-roll convention? They’re putting out some merch’ in the shops.”

“Is that so?” he asked quietly, not a hint of interest in his voice. Belle chose to ignore it and held up her new keychain she’d been hiding in her pocket. All of them were rather expensive, yet worth every cent in her opinion. 

It was the chibi figurine of Rum, posed cutely with his guitar and singing into a mic. His hair was floofy and curly, his smile crooked bright even though he wore sunglasses, and his face stained in greenish-grayish makeup, golden glitter on his cheeks like freckles. He wore his signature crocodile-leather and tight pants, not to mention his riding boots. A small bell hung on the chain, and Belle rocked it back and forth to make it jingle.

Gold barely reacted. “Adorable,” he deadpanned, and abruptly left her in the rain as he crossed the street without another word.

Shrugging, she dropped her chibi Rum back into her pocket and walked to Granny’s for breakfast.

~.~.~.~

_“Get ready for another storm, folks, for another big one traveling across the county…” _The TV droned, and Belle only paid a little attention to it as she greeted Mary Margret and David who stumbled into the dinner shivering and dripping wet. “Sorry,” Mary Margret said as she and her beau tore their hats and coat off, “the rain caught us off guard.”__

__“Didn’t you guys check the weather report?” Belle asked, sipping her warm coco. “They’ve been complaining about another storm since yesterday.”_ _

__“Ugh, don’t even get me started with Mother Nature,” the other woman complained as she and David claimed a table. “I’m just about done with rain for a while.”_ _

__“Yeah, I can say the same,” David added, rubbing his hands up and down his arms._ _

__Ruby came waltzing around the counter, carrying her serving tray high as she handed coffee and food out to the other patrons. Smoothly, she came around the table Mary Margret and David sat and pulled out a little notebook. Shaking her head, she said, “The old woman’s been barking up my tree about cleaning out the fridge in the backroom. Still got those rotten eggs. Belle, still need us to egg your secret lover’s house?”_ _

__“Oh, no!”_ _

__“Secret lover?” David smirked boyishly. “Is there something you girls aren’t telling me?”_ _

__“David,“ Mary Margret groaned, swatting his arm._ _

__“I don’t have a secret lover,” Belle shook her head firmly. “And no one’s getting egged. That’s just down right rude.”_ _

__“Aw, come on, Bells, it’ll be fun,” Ruby persuaded, taking the couple’s orders. “Did you hook up with Gaston the other night?”_ _

__“No, and I wouldn’t. Gaston’s not really my t—“_ _

__Speaking of the devil, Gaston barged in from the rain with his squat friend LeFou trailing behind him. With a too-perfect smile, he beamed at her from across the room and glided over. “Belle, my love! You’re just the woman I was looking for.”_ _

__“Hi, Gaston.”_ _

__“Ha—Yeah, we were looking all over town for you, right?” LeFou panted, wet still, looking back and forth between her and Gaston like an expectant child._ _

__Belle opened her mouth to respond, just was Gaston was ready to say something, when her phone suddenly went off in her pocket. Holding one finger up to pause her conversation, she then glanced at the caller ID._ _

__Smiling, see that it was her father’s name that showed up, she answred and put her phone to her ear._ _

__“Hi, Pa—!”_ _

___“Belle,_ ” her father said solemnly, “ _It’s your mother.”__ _

__~.~.~.~_ _

__Gold hated the rain._ _

__It was because, once upon a time, it use to be his ideal time for songwriting._ _

__He sighed against the glass of the large magnifying light, pushing it back on the rusty hinges. Rain was pouring outside and tapping against his windows. The light-bulb on in his desk’s lamp buzzed in a dull, orange glow._ _

A song was repeating itself over and over in his head, and annoyingly so Gold found himself humming to the tune. “… _You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre, Contemplating a crime, She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running, Like a watercolor in the rain, Don’t bother asking for explanations, She’ll just tell you that she came, In the year of the cat…_ ”. 

__Gold tried to shake the song out of his mind. He really did. But every time he tried to not hum, to not sing, to not even tap his foot to the tune, the song rushed back full force, and he kept repeating the same stupid lines over and over._ _

__And every time he said the words, a specific face surfaced in his mind._ _

__Belle Fucking French._ _

Groaning in frustration, Gold slouched back in his chair and buried his face in his hands. _That wee burd’s gonna be the death of me.._. 

__He knew she was trouble the day she nearly killed him in the street. Indeed, he had noticed her physical beauty from the second the lass drove around the corner. Even through her grimy truck window, he could see her lovely smile, bright and happy, bobbing to a song. Her lovely brown and red hair framing her creamy-pale heart shaped face was enough to even grasp his attention. Yet he was used to seeing beautiful woman, in and out of this small town he owned._ _

__Though even he, the town beast, paused to admire this lass’s beauty._ _

__His admiration of her ended the moment she nearly ran over him. Since, Belle Fuck-Me French has been a pain in his arse._ _

__He’d be lying if he said it was a bad kind of pain. His thoughts of her had been mild and platonic, for the majority of the past two years, skimming the fact that his healthy heterosexual drive naturally found her physically appealing. It helped to know that she was fucking mental about the punk-arse he use to be-it gave him a reason to dislike her. Sometimes it helped him hate her, too, a little—other times he feared her discovering who he really is—or, who he used to be. But even if she found out his “dirty little secret”, he was still Mr. Gold. Rum was dead._ _

__Yet since that night of the storm, things had changed. When he’d played for her, a long forgotten side of him had been stirred awake. And another when he stood at her front door, shivering and nursing his wounded pride, edgy and frightened and angry at the world, at Mal, at everything. And Belle had opened her door, bright eyed and lively, wearing a shirt with _his fucking face on it_ , and tiny, tiny shorts._ _

It was a _fucking miracle_ he could keep his eyes on her face, at the time. 

__Now all he thought was pure frustration when it came to her. Belle had said that he’d caused reason for her parents to get hitched, though he really couldn’t remember doing that. He’d met a lot of people when he was young. Fucked a lot, too. Broke up a lot of couples because of that…_ _

__A libido that should be long gone began to resurface. All because of a single Belle Fuck-Me-Sideways French._ _

__“Fuck it,” he grumbled to himself, pushing his chair back to stand. Pacing the room never really helped him think, and fixing a simple pocket watch shouldn’t take an ounce of focus if one knew how to do it like they knew the back of their hand—which he did. Yet today his head was in the clouds, Al Stewart and Belle Motherfucking-Beautiful French haunting him like a broken record._ _

__Against his good will, his eyes shifted to a drawer in the back of the room. He knew it was filled with junk. His “man drawer”, as Bae called it. Even so, he wondered on over to it and tugged it open. It had been a while since he was intimate with this small compartment, and it creaked as it opened, a cobweb pulling apart in its wake._ _

__He pulled out an old notebook, dusty and ancient as him._ _

__“My old friend,” he whispered ruefully, wiping down the cover. A heavy coating of dark dust tainted his callused hand. Memories, he knew, were like bad tattoos. A man doesn’t necessarily want them, he can’t get rid of them easily, but in the end they make up who he is. Gold knew that all too well._ _

__It didn’t mean he had to fucking like it, though._ _

__Sometimes after a show, he and his lassie-friends would get so fucked up and shit-faced that they could barely remember their own goddamn names. Other times he’d crawl into bed with some faceless bird overly eager to shag the town rocker. Either way, he spend most of his late adolescence and early adulthood turning his brain to mush, getting drunk off the cheer of the crowed, the lights aimed at him on the stage, and the loud adoration his fans gave him._ _

__But by god, he would be lying if he said he missed it._ _

__Last time he tried performing, even though it had been in front of ole Mal, he’d nearly pissed himself getting triggered from a loud glitch in the electric guitar._ _

__He’d been gone long before the world even knew it. After all, bands just don’t play all the fucking time. Did they wonder what happened during those few months he went AWOL? Mal and them went on just fine. Course, they full-on expected him to be his ole chipper self once he was discharged._ _

__He’d never expected anything to change, either._ _

__Now he can’t even stop himself from shaking like a fucking virgin once the spotlights aimed on him, blinding him, with the guitar in his arms, all too much like a gun held to his chest, and the sounds of his fans like the screams of those dying and in pain._ _

__Gold shook his head, leaving his office to limp down the hallway. Storybrooke was familiar to him. He had adapted to it like a dog lying down to die. It didn’t even matter that Milah was no longer around; in the end she didn’t care, she was dead, and all that really mattered was his son. But with Bae gone, the house was too big and too quiet, echoing both his footsteps and his emotions._ _

__Notebook in hand, he idly flicked through the crisp pages yellowed from age. It was filled with scribbles, mostly, some pleasant while others not so much. And, most of all, it housed some of his unfinished songs._ _

__Song writing had come easily to him, once. Now the notion slipped over his head like a fickle bird. Speaking of birds, a different kind of one was bothering him._ _

__Gold had wandered into his storage rooms—what was technically suppose to be a guest room, but his house was too big and it was only him._ _

__A little bit selfishly, he’d hoarded many of his treasures here. Old friends, like this notebook, waiting to be of use but never could he put the effort in. When that wee bird asked him to play for her, it had been the first time in fucking _years_ since he’d played a full song, much less in front of someone. Even Bae hadn’t the pleasure of hearing his old man spin his magic on a nice set of strings._ _

__Gold sighed, dragging a hand down a glossy mahogany acoustic. All his quiet wooden friends laid about, loyal and stable and familiar. He was in control of them, always, and that thought always brough comfort. As a boy, life was never certain, even when he befriended Mal and knew she’d come ‘round summer time. Instruments, however, never failed him like people. They don’t judge, they don’t leave you. They don’t kill. If a string snapped or a bow broke, a key fallen out of place, or a cord snarled, it could be fixed. People weren’t so simple._ _

__He plopped down onto a stool, leaning his cane against the nearby wall. Flipping through his old notes always made him reminisce—not always for the better, but still. Bittersweet memories. _Bittersweet Symphonies.__ _

__He wonders what Belle would think of this room. Would she aw over it like before, with the harp guitar (which was on the wall with the rest of its siblings)?_ _

__All his intruments were here. Mostly guitars: acoustics, electrics. Some rare, some common as any cheep set of strings. Among his collection he owned a few harps, a trumpet, a grand piano in the far corner, an upright across the room. Two cello and three violins. He was sure there was a banjo somewhere. Even a fucking bagpipe. Why did he own a bagpipe?_ _

__But Gold was too busy focused on the chicken scrawl in this grimy old book in his lap. He had more at his cabin, and had a bit of a mind to go there sometime later today, but for now he’d stay. Faintly, for the pages were stained and brittle-d and winkled from having been gotten wet and dried more than once. He ran his callused fingers across some of the words, making some of them out._ _

_She’s a dream you can’t have, a vision… why are you even trying, lad? She’s gonna leave someday, yea, she’ll leave ya like the rest…_ and _Half-past mast, we can’t forecast, the magic’s gone and you’re dead and gone…_ plus _Crying for ma again, dry your baby’s tears and take a deep breath, money’s gotta go to her or to the lech_. 

__A lot of his old lyrics were about heartache, loneliness, sex, drugs, or just downright depression. Deadbeat fathers. Most of his tries at songwriting after being discharged were not so… nice, as before._ _

__Though now, thinking of the songs that have been stuck in his head for the past weeks, a spark of something—something new and unique—flares up inside him. Interest. Drive. Inspiration._ _

__He thinks of her blue eyes. He thinks of the red in her hair when she stands in the sunlight. He thinks of her optimistic nature._ _

__He thinks of her smile._ _

__The side of his mouth twitches upward, and he reaches for the simple acoustic guitar. He’d go to the cabin where it was quiet and isolated. He’d write. He’d play._ _

__He’d make music again._ _

__~.~.~.~_ _

__She’s been walking for hours._ _

__Her emotions were overall numb, and for this she was glad. When her father called her to let her in on Mum’s decision to stop the chemo, her first thoughts were worry, fear, and horror. Then it was anger._ _

__Her own mother, the woman who taught her to be brave and true, just— _gives up?_ How _dare_ she! The hypocrite! Guilt hit her then, mingling with the deep rage that burned bitterly inside of her like a boiling pot. It was too much, too much that she could barely tell her own friends before running home without even taking her umbrella. Belle never open the library that day, and didn’t answer her phone to anyone. Instead, she stayed in her flat, locking herself inside to dwell on the sizzling emotions in her chest._ _

__When it became apparent that siting in the library alone would get her no-where, she sighed and stood up. She pulled on her coat and slipped outside, locking her flat behind her. Her “small walk” turned out to be a near hour long hike in the woods._ _

__She barely registered in her mind that she’d been out here for so long, and by the time she did, she realized she was lost. The only hope for returning home was the thin, slick black road, though she had no idea which way would lead her home—she had stayed from the path at some point, and evidently lost direction._ _

__It’d stopped raining earlier, but the sky was an angry gray and a bright boom of thunder sounded in the distance, flashing behind grand clouds. Wrapping her arms around her tighter, she walked through the trees faster than before. Mist clung in the air like heavy perfume, sticking to her exposed cheeks and chill her bones. What little sunlight that could filter through the trees was hazy in the foggy air. The sky only grew darker and angrier, and soon a light drizzle of rain begun to fall yet again that day. A light panic filled her, and her urge to get back home grew in severity._ _

__She sped up her pace, heels clicking the road as she hurriedly trotted along. It was then one of her feet slipped into a small hole in the road._ _

__“Ah!” she yelped, her ankle twisting in an abnormal position. Her left heel snapped off, prompting her to loose balance and go tumbling down on the ground. Belle landed on her side, but spat a leave out when her head landed in a muddy cluster of them. “This could not get any worse—!”_ _

__A car drove by. It rumbled on the road like a great black purring monster, its lights flashing in the fading light of the forest. The vehicle drove over the dips in the road. Dirty rainwater splashed out, covering her in mini tsunami wave._ _

__Instantly cold and wet, Belle let out a startled gasp and scrambled to stand. Immediate rage filled her like a mercury thermometer’s red line rising, until it hit the top and busted. In that moment, all her frustration was let out. Let out for her mother’s decision to give up, let out because of the Queen’s failed interview, let out because of Rum was missing, and let out because of Mr. Gold’s indifference. Glaring daggers in the car’s direction as she pulled herself up, she furiously picked up a rock and tossed it at the car’s rear bumper, _hard_ —_ _

__And it. Just happened. To be. Mr. Gold’s. Blasted. Bumper._ _

__“Shit.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Gold was singing: "Year of the Cat" - Al Stewart
> 
> Next Chapter: Gold and Belle get stranded in his cabin while another storm passes. Once again, they'll be forced to actually _talk_ to each other without escape.


End file.
